Hot Tarmac

self-evident, I would have thought.

Hot and black
it's burning your feet,
tacky like chewing gum,
the grit tastes sweet.
Faded leather
or a dried out toad
an abandoned glove
on a potholed road.
Two snakes passed by,
left their skin
wind blows the styrofoam
and a dog-food tin.
Far in the distance,
the tar becomes haze
a black top oasis,
with a mirrored glaze.