A maze of matchbox houses and twisted scooters,

we made our escape from the suburbs last night.

Bob Dylan lyrics on our budding minds-

Let the bells ring inside our ears!

Our flimsy legs and soft feet

could never steer through mud,

but they now whisk oh-so-silently

through our neighbors’ sea

of trembling grass, now almost-black

under nighttime jewels of the sky.

Trampled by our proud and grimy soles, their

broken bodies glimmer-

rest in peace, victims to the uniform blue skies

and endless loops of cul-de-sacs.

The air smells dangerously saccharine-

I heed the glorious seduction that poisons

millions to still themselves,

slip off their walking shoes

and wipe their tired feet

on viscous wax floors-

rooting themselves

like the trembling grass-

in a poor man’s soil.

Stay, the breeze whispers into my ear,

stay.

But I see around me the millions of pairs of blinking eyes

winking in and out of a trance,

and a million pairs of still trunks for thighs-

I gaze forward again.

the citizens stare as we run in our shaking and aching legs

and dirty size eight shoes

to catch the moon -

does it not look bigger now than

ever before?