skipping around in the sunshine
scrapes sand scratchy beats
against the sole of my memory
the miles we trod,
with the weight
of a brain stuffed with thinking,
leaves only a scrap of laughter
on the bus stop bench
more bass than treble
his voice needs that much
adjustment
tell him yourself
I have skips to count
and preserve
somehow
without telling myself
old shoes sound better
on swept pavement
M. Flannery
July 2025
