Off Beat Bike Ramps
Off beat bike ramps
And a screaming grandfather that is not my own
Across a street with no name,
A boy sits on a stucco stoop,
With rocks in hand, aimed for my future
I ran away, or rather
Rode away on my bike
Around the block and grounded
Downstairs, an old lady
Appropriately named Clementine, for she was so sweet
A black and white floor for two little girls
Me being one of them, you being the other
I mistook Tom for my father once
And cried when my real one cut his hair
Scattered are the memories
But memorable nonetheless
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