The rails were cold on my hands
but so was the coffee we share with a straw
Topics of conversation trail off
into the luminous glow of childhood
Like the rules of kickball suppressing
we write our names on the cement walls
we watch the smoke crawl out of your house
I set my hand in fresh gum
warm from the chew
pale strings flow in the windless room
far enough to make us leave
Grazing those cold rails
we do not step on the cracks
they are toxic
and will hurl us back into the past
Practice makes perfect
when denying our lives and
living under rocks
Starrfishing 