Twelve-Year-Old on Trammell Street Runs Away
In the yard backflipping, crazy
dogs making nests at ankles.
The grasshoppers tell you to pick up
after dragging sneakers through mulch just laid.
And did I tell you about the tent? Pitched to the side
no one knows where it came from, and I bet
if you looked close enough you could hear
the grass sing. As dogs exchange teeth,
you become a string band:
a tangle of swells and stomping
the sweet smell of melting mint.
Remember nights on the ground
building homes in grandmother’s wrinkles.
