tonight I will write of
ice cream dropped in the playground
knees skinned by the flinging round-a-bout
that moment when it is home time
and you cannot decide
what will give most fun
for that one last ride
and you chose wrongly
and are led away by the hand
in defiance we do not look at the trees
nor see the shimmering sun dance on the river
miss those geese in formation
but follow along heavy of hand
staring at the ground
The Blue Book
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