Sulfur rods – a little stockier and squarer
Than dynamite – sprinkled with a salt shaker
And embellished with amber flakes
Of merciless spice on a Scoville scale
And we call this street delicacy
A renegade of sorts, the conglomeration
Of a vintage acidity, raw unheralded sweetness
And a good helping of orange nuke
Pixel-axing virgin sketch marks on tongue
And dark tanned vendors with milky-white aluminum utensils
– The omnipresent local candymen –
Parade themselves in the scorching sun
To make the commoner’s mouth water
With a manic explosion of drip-through
As nature’s Popsicle crumbles and demarcates
A lush territory of pink with a spring tide
Of liquid aurum.
