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©
