I miss the fireflies
amidst the mild summer height
hidden under a kaleidoscopic sky
and towering elms.

The fleeting feeling of running rampant
and scabbed knees
I miss the brick by the front door,
yet with every passing year I forget it some more.

It’s been years since fireflies,
now only suffering under suffocating heat,
a life entertained under the mouse trapped pink skies
and false palm trees.

And with every thrill that arrives every year,
reeling down highways with music a blast,
I miss the brick by the front door,
yet with every passing year I forget it some more.