Summer Tar

The air grew thick, a sudden, heavy cloak,

when we drove past the road crew.

Hot asphalt steaming, black and sharp,

a smell that clings, that stays with you.

They smoothed it down, the workmen in the sun,

their machines a low and steady beat.

A tarred black ribbon, newly spun,

beneath the summer's heavy heat.

It marked my shoes, it marked the air,

a sticky memory that wouldn't leave me there.