Childhood's Summer

At dusk, we raced gleefully

along chip-and-tar lanes

shadowed by stolid oak and elm.

Enveloped in fog

trailing from mosquito trucks,

we popped wheelies,

rode on handlebars,

stood atop seats—

before wiping out.

We knew nothing

of helmets or protective pads—

aware only of the rough-and-tumble ways

of our feral child tribe.

Scarred knees, palms, elbows

became pitted with loose gravel

once more.

Pebbles, dirt, tears

washed down the drain

by fizzing hydrogen peroxide rivulets.

Injuries wrapped in gauze

and stripes of surgical tape

served as bright white medals

won in the evening’s fray.

Sent out again,

we collected bikes,

splayed on pavement

where they—we—had fallen.

Hobbling home in twilight,

a cricket chorus

was our dirge.