peoem 17 18 19

dancing, handful of touch,
love is in ground
hate, no one cares much.

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when we were children,
we waited in those long lines,
they stretched all the way outside,
in those squiggily lines,

the bus driver would stop;
the bus stop would appear.
kids would fall, plop!
gett off, home is near.

we could pretend to cry
when it was all time to leave
but we really never knew
what crying was meant to be.

and then came old,
all slow and fast all the same;
and we cried, and cried, and cried.
it was childhood, excepting name

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he loved to hear those words
but sometimes they were far and away,
if only he heard them again,
he probably would have stayed.

the magic words they flew deep
and hit him - struck in,
slow loving