It never ended. It crept slightly
behind, but kept in step. On bright
days, it remembered how you chose
yellow or yellow orange, and with
the crayon in your stubby fingers,
drew a circle with a tiara, larger
than the moon. And when it rained,
you made a hundred slanting lines;
they fell like pins from the sky.
No one really got stung or died but
they made an outline of a roof
and walls and somewhere a door.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
