Sprout

Sundays were bright blue
a family drawn in sidewalk chalk
and a hidden stack of mail;
summer evaporated like
old rain
sun-scorched puddles
at the base
of the drive

our feet were small-

strong, calloused by
hot pavement and
we spoke love like
it was a part of us
like there was no
hole in the fence
like last year’s best shorts
still fit
like when we raced we weren’t
just running away

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