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The soft coo of pigeons bounce
as stale breadcrumbs
scatter under the bridge
of what was manifest,
now forgotten.

“Bread’s too hard to eat,” he says,
wiping his brow with the kerchef.
He stretches on the rocks,
a misshapen big toe blasting
through the soils of boot and sock.

“When I was kid, the water still flowed.
If it flooded, it made it about to where I sit.”
The raccoon paused its mud scavenge
to regard him with an eye for shinier things.

He glances back to the graffiti painted,
green, yellow, red on the concrete
decades ago when children
could do such things
and consider themselves brave.

He takes his coffee off the fire,
pulls out a gray hair
with his half gloved fingers,
sips warmth back to his bones.

He sets down the mug,
starts rifling through his pockets,
frantically,
till he finds the plastic bag
containing his most prized possession.

He opens the lid
of the yellowed-green box
to snort the smell
of not so hallucinatory,
primary and secondary colors –
crayons.

(Written for DversePoets, a poem about growing up)

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