like a child does with a box of colored chalk on the sidewalk. And I skipped and hopped on each square, with one leg up. And pleasure was the order of the day. That was then,
when I placed the world on the hot cement. After each rainfall, and the brush of the leaves or the chill of the snow the colors bleed into a possum. And we both wondered if
itβs dead or alive. Did we contrive what it was when it lit the whole **** street - was merely a figment, a child-like dream.