Highland Park Block Party

Mr. Tarka wondered

"Why do wild-eyed girls
with long curly hair

waste days

reaching

for the skies

on the Showalters’ trampoline,"
 as he twisted his handle-bar mustache.

He watched the street fill
with ribbon-covered bikes

and the fields fill
with grills and expecting stomachs.

That night, his lights
were on 'til two

as the basketball
kissed the net,

making less noise
than a cricket.

Twelve o’clock heat
roasted my skin
while I headed down
to the pond-
where I saw his baby blue pickup
 drag dirt in its rear

as frogs left wet drops
 on green lillies.

I followed him down
to an empty lot
where he was building a house
with little more
than hammer and nails.