The last place I felt warm
was two towns ago.
I found a remnant of my
babyhood in the asphalt,
buried too shallow
for long-enough nails.
I asked the sun for a ride home,
requesting we skip over Route 77
and instead take the back roads.
I want to melt slowly,
until I can count each particle
that once came together
to form my rainboots.
I want to tell someone how
cloud-cover makes it difficult
to hear across empty streets.
Here wandering around a parking lot
made me remember that my backyard
was at one time my kingdom,
just minus the king.
I used to play with imaginary friends
and the sunsets came too slowly.