The thirteenth of 155 poems about the Beltline by Lee Butler.
Scrap plywood words hung by wire to the webbing Were the dangling nouns chosen by children? My pinkie wrapped around yours as you keep me on the inside as did the gentlemen on the city sidewalks of yore The Post Oak which needs a yellow ribbon round it's middle Your refrain each week, "The distance seems shorter." My response, "Because we know the route and what comes next." The nearly summer nineties refreshed by the breezes that arrive Just before we get too hot. Reaching the underpass refrigerated by the dark concrete and gurgles of water. Tiny varieties and variations of vibrations above our heads as we breathe the cool. The chocolate mulch, mounded up used as a bench by a runner and his panting Bulldog Holding hands homeward we step off the path and encounter two plastic soldiers placed atop a mailbox posed by a grown-up child a tiny duel in our Sunday landscape.