Casting light, from finger tip
to hard sidewalk top.
Sneakers, the kind with laces,
send squeaks up and down the streets
of this old town.
Basking in the reflection of
youth. Soft hands. Small feet.
Eyes large enough to dream.

Bright. Strong. Awake!

The bounds are called. Monsters here.
Lava (molten and flowing like
the letters on the board that
fill up our days, and ignore our
nights) here.
The night is our bastion.
It will hide us. Mask us.
Make secret our clubs,
our crowns, our meetings.

And here! My god, here!
Mark this place; Remember it!
(How could anyplace not be made for small hands?)
This will be our place. It is
all ours. Find us, we dare you!

Dreams are filled; sugar candies.
Cartoons. Not with life as it is known,
but with shades of not known, instead.

Cast this light. Tip to top.
From here to there, on the count.

One. Two. Three.

Run!