We walk in circles around houses with broken windows;
glass clinging to old rotten wood and heat crawling inside searching for life to drain.
Plasters peeling off of pulp and
years peeling off of childhood homes that don’t mean much without the child.
Some kid’s sneaker growing out of a dead vegetable garden crying out that they’ve moved on as its laces become roots.
Baked clay, burned under a giant yellow balloon ready to burst.
Its a runaway from the sticky hand of someone’s little brother
who cried because not even his elastic five minute best friend wanted him.
We can feel the sidewalk melting beneath our feet.