The Absence of Wavelength

Immortals

I miss the tiny faces,
shadowed, round,
smudging our kitchen window
waiting impatiently
until mother said
I'd eaten enough,
skip the dishes to
aim cap guns
in each other's faces
in our deciduous escape,
unconditional.
I'll be back tomorrows
forever seemed unending.
Hot sun baked the seats of
banana-seat bikes,
handles burdened with
leather gloves --
one hand cycling
with lumbered shoulders
standing on pedals
in cleats somehow
never falling that summer.
Endless fun
shouting, mimicking
our immortals.

I look out now
for those prying eyes.
No surprise.
We're all dead.



IDEA FOR ANOTHER POEM...

How about a poem that stops short of making obvious rhymes to intone what need not be said? Cause we know,