i cannot dream
when enrobed by concrete
crumbling, desecrated
and peeling walls
kids used to play
past dark
bikes whizzing under street lights
but doors opened to us
and swallowed us whole
with teeth of televisions
and saliva of anxiety
sour, putrid, reeking
it still blows over my face to this day.
i crack a window.
and it is noon
i am six years old
watching the field,
(i can hold it in my little hand
like a ripe, green grape)
sway under the weight of
imaginary children's footsteps
and beloved animal paws
i am ten years old
and i listen
but it is still
except for the drone
cars and cicadas, on and on and on and on
my world holds its breath
until it becomes dizzy