I like the streets at twilight because the pavement
and the color of the cars and the crusty grass all stretch into the sky.
I walk home from Tilly's house a little faster today,
because I am later than usual today.
These streets look the same, mismo, though I've lived on ten others.
There is the screen door with a gash, hangin' on a hinge;
the rusty sprinkler pulled out years ago
attached to a dried up hose-
a fake snake that won't even curl into a coil
so stiff from this
sun and sun and sun
can't even hide in the grass
because the grass can't grow-
Every three to four houses the wash on the line is trying to fly,
and I am, too.
But not home, even though that's where my feet are taking me.
My heart is pointed somewhere else.
My mind just has to figure out
where that is and how it's going to get us there.
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