Elms and old ladies hold church
while barefoot town kids run wild.1
Nights of orange and black in old hooded jackets unzipped,
chasing little boyfriends by the snowfenced endzone,
leaving clouds of breath hanging in the air.
We race behind the bleachers and big kids spit
from the top row.2
Snowplow mountains reach the playground fence top.
No one dares tongue it. Mom makes me wear a dress
once a week; snow cakes on my thin blue tights.
Inside after recess, puddles form under my desk
as my legs melt.3
Wild rivers rage to corner curb and gutter
from the church parking lot. We make small boats
of cork and bark to run the rapids. Plowing
through puddles on bikes sends water spray patterns
behind the wheels.4
Elms arch over the street in a cathedral ceiling.
Crying or chanting, I pedal along popping
wheelies, burning skids. To Alaska, to Alaska,
Dad says we are leaving. Coasting into the sunshine
I tell the elms goodbye.
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