Eleven

Eleven


How still the summer
sings through the quiet
streets of discarded
bicycles and damp
towels left to dry.

Popsicle wrappers
lie sticky in the grass,
waiting for ants to feed
on the clinging juice.

A sunburned cheek,
cool bath, and sheets
underneath skin
that stings and smells
of calamine lotion
dotted pink on the backs
of your knees.

The last before
your voice goes deep
and the neighbor girls
will be too shy to ring
at the door for you
anymore.

Angela Minard©