honeydunce

You flee to the tree stump, you stand there and sing, stretch an arm into the yard to beckon the sad tomato plants to listen. Until the neighbor Don appears leaning on the fence, smiling—embarassed then you run to the porch swing, play Ambulance with the ants on the concrete. Marvel at their ability to carry the injured away.

Never dwell long in the cool dark corner, the one pine tree shade, the place where your cousins will gravitate with their miniatures and stories. You hover at the edge, kick rotting apples and pretend like your game is right there on the boundary in the sun. Sink into the tick-tick-tick of cicadas and summer. The lightning bugs launch from hands, the fence is closed.

All of the houses are one level, and brick. The occupants are anonymous and older—you squint when their doors open looking for a kid. Someone your age to scheme with, but nothing. Find solace in the storm drain, the septic gurgle at the end of the property line. Write on your skin with squeezed mulberries. Believe that one day you will grow up, live close to this road, maybe build something huge like a family or a cilo of movie stubs and pop tabs(all the rage to keep on key rings and rusty necklaces). Watch the rows of folding chairs multiply next door for an outdoor wedding and write like mad in a journal—what of this waiting, you scrawl, what of this time. Let me be there now.

When you go home, hang onto the scent of where you were previous. The mix of laundry and objects. Cuff to nose, cuff to nose. When the arguing is bad you go downstairs, dance on one foot in the back room making up songs to drown out the shouting. Long for pine green carpet, the trampled fabric of illusioned safety. Not really here, not really there. Develop stomach responses to outside statements. When the car stops at red lights, imagine throwing the door open, not looking back as you break into a run.