Bulky. Buried under the rat sky
full of tailed sun-rays.
One soulless bite of concrete.
The smell of urine and damp walls
chases our quiet neighbors.
Who are we to judge the imperfection anyway
The benches in front of each porch,
cigarette butts and beer bottles under the windows‒
these make the picture complete,
It was covering us with dark shade‒
many short years ago,
us, hiding from our omniscient mothers.
And each knew…
If we went home to drink water
we would not go out until the next day.
And it didn’t seem funny
I wonder… are these the memories
that make my childhood so precious and so distant