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steeplechase rd. MAG
it was the fall of dead crickets.
we swept them out of the garage with
the brooms that came in our halloween costumes
and sat on the curb to hear the crackle
of tired rubber grinding new asphalt.
sometimes we walked to the gas station,
bought orange soda to drink through sour-patch straws
and with the change, we laid
rusted pennies to sleep on the train track
and carried thin copper luck things on thread.
we dug up summer’s last dandelions
and raised them in Mama’s glass bowls
until she made us replace the holes in the yard.
well that was okay, we just ran to the creek
and folded our once-upon-a-times
into paper boats.
witches trickled tears shed from
God’s cruel lashes
onto children who climbed electrical towers
to hold the nervous currents at their toes
and we raised our faces like november turkeys to taste october rain.