Small Town

I'm from stubborn knots in a ratty cape and the gritty bits of bark
In knees and palms. Of squidging toes in muddy flowerbeds
And burying all the plastic spoons.
Where the fur balls roll like Western weeds
And that dog's in the library again.
Tea parties under a purple umbrella
And dragging the sprinkler under the trampoline.
Dad's still "it".
Barefoot's better.

And I'm leaving next week.

The End

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