This is the memory of a neighborhood.
Where the ghosts
of its children play along sidewalks
waving hands filled with chalk
over the ground
attempting to recreate the drawings
their present-day selves
can only faintly recall.
In the heat of a summer afternoon
between the call of the cicada
and the passing of an old truck
you might hear them laugh
You might hear them running
You might get a glimpse
of a time when their boundaries
hadn’t gone up
a time that even they
a single drop in a pool of happiness
is hard to recall
when pressed for the details.