the sky grinned at us, blue toothed
licking his lips, following us
for the past mile or two
so we kicked him off our avenue
said “take your white clouds and
beat it,”

like the man with a dented spine
always curses- with his rump side up
and face to the ground
staring at brown striped cigarette
buds poking out of grass,
charred and cracked

like the pavement we ride on
with dashed tightrope in the center
tar sloping down on the sides
runoff flowing into waffle-plated wells

but a hundred-dollar-honda parked
over that one today
a few polo-necked punks
chugging beer for laughs
with the door ajar, mid-day

below the crabapple tree
whose fruit goes unpicked- rotting
upon bowed branches
with gossamer threads wrapped ‘round
holding an inchworm in place
caught in the spider’s domain
woven tight and stitched

unlike the roots bursting through
spray painted, dimpled concrete
with a busted curb
worn, occasionally mended
never redone, but the memories-
live deep within its crevices
of blackened gum splatters,
loose pennies and nickels,
sidewalk chalk residue-

from the boy who lives in the grey house
with a mailbox full of bills
a house of six political signs
vibrantly displayed on the frown lawn
often interfering with his solo soccer game-
the other kids don't like playing with him
‘cause he speaks only the refrigerated words,
tattooed on the navel by his parents

we’ll try to wish him free,
but I know too much about this street