the sidewalks. cracked with patches of unwelcome green sprouting between the gaps of the cigarette spattered cement.

the houses. small with crooked shingles and curling paint in dreary shades of
brown grey white.

the trees. tower over my three foot stature with limp and dehydrated branches hanging in the july air.

a poky caterpillar sits in front of my rubber tire
orange and black and fuzzy.
i remember mommy saying this kind
will never be a butterfly


so i smoosh it

and watch as bright goo oozes
out of the remains.
my tires trample over
more furry bodies, and the sidewalk is stained
lime
green.