Concrete Angel

Sometimes she lays down on the black-as-a-cat concrete,
Thighs burning from the heat, fingers tingling, elbows tingling
She lays there because she can.
Because life is too short sometimes to question impulses
Because she wonders if anyone has ever made a concrete angel
Like a snow angel, but only on the hot, hot, concrete.
On the black, black concrete
Too-hot-to-touch concrete
Fry-an-egg-on-it concrete
Coal-black, soul-black concrete.