Cloverleaf Drive

He was crying and wouldn’t take dinner, so, huddled off and to the side, the three of us we stop and watch kids two-hand pitching over gravel, then walk on. This old block - the architecture is not the same… - was this it? where we fumbled in her V-dub, laugh-drunk, unworried about upholstered mud or taxes? this where we played and got late for dinner?… - by the teal house, I hear young numb knuckles scrape around for warmth or wisdom. It is too dark. My hip hurts. I decide we three should turn back. On the way home, I thought I saw an old friend by streetlight.