The Call of the Cicada

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
or cry.
You might hear them running
screaming gleefully.
You might get a glimpse
of a time when their boundaries
hadn’t gone up
a time that even they
won’t remember.

For them
a single drop in a pool of happiness
is hard to recall
when pressed for the details.


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