three o'clock every afternoon,
you would come out to play
only fifteen feet from home,
mother wouldn't let you stray
said the birthmark on your feet,
a symbol for your itch to explore
only fifteen feet from home,
but you have always wanted more
drawing on the ground with pebbles,
making a canvas out of the street
bouncy steps on bumpy, hot cement,
careless of the dirt on your feet
running in wide, drunk circles,
scraping your scarred little knees
forgetting why you were laughing,
but you chased the sun, at least
she shouts your name from the house,
thick orange juice and sweet bread
a small towel on your sticky back,
she tied the wet hair on your head
the daytime moon followed you home,
with its humble clouds not far behind
how vast, you thought, was the world,
but it wasn't as vast as your mind
a.r.
if magic exists it'd be the mind of a child
