Fifties Summers

I remember hot summers
of my childhood, when nobody
in our Detroit neighborhood
imagined air conditioning.

I sucked ice to cool down.
We ran through sprinklers
and hoses, got an older boy
to open a fire hydrant.

Evenings on front porches
cat snoozing, father smoking
the yellow of the porchlight
darkening faces, mosquitoes

high whine as they circled.
Moths hurled themselves at
lamps. My bed never cooled.
Heavy air pressed on my chest.

Windows open, I could hear
mister next door snoring
sirens wailing, drunk’s curses
motors revving on hot rods.

I imagined lying in a cold lake
though I never learned to swim.
Detroit was a box of fire
and smoke where I cooked.