Summer always flies by fleeting like watercolor painting flying out the car window like a flag. Days and minutes turn into sand turn into dust, slipping through fingers no matter how hard you hold tight. Winged shoes, Hermes flying in Converse or Vans. Cadmium caduceus. I see the waves white and blue, the red is a warning sign. Stop sign yellow-bellied archer gripping tight to his bow. Some expect weaponsmith. Some expert weaponsmith. I should’ve started a long time ago. Running up the dusty hill, past old rockfaces of ages. Calendar pages flip up and around until the year is out and we start all over again. I rub my two hands together to warm up. I rub two sticks together to make a fire. I remember doing that a lot as a kid; We could never seem to get it going. With rocks too. Playground games. Faded hopscotch lines and wall ball, foursquare. The big three, the big tree, it’s gargantuan roots coming up from the pavement, forming cracks in the blacktop. A place for a squirrel to hide. I remember seeing maggots on that playground for the first time. There was a dead animal in the corner of the schoolyard.

Author: Roe

30. she/her. Songwriter & Trek Punk Soul™.

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