poems poems poems

What I did then, What I still do

We sit

in silence

but for        

    slurps and

 drips of

popsicles who’ve

done their

best in

begging for

mercy only

to be 

killed for

sweet sensory

chalk on 

the driveway

and on

our hands

and feetand clothes

the colors

express our

thoughts then

the rain

washes it

away and 

drips in

unison with

our popsicles 

and we

begin dancing

along.