mar 3

Forgotten black book.
Instead, typed. thumbed in pink, rewrite:
No, written:
_____________________

Yesterday on one of the longest escalators upward, a bouncy boy of 9 playfully tried to travel down. he. prompted three smiles of strangers. One of them is still existent. One of them to share..

Only to be buried by the morning commute and the of captivating dreams that made the a.m beep unrecognizable.
Late.

Cold and waiting, train jumping.

I wear layers. I see layers.
Dots. bumps. lines. engraved. yellow. white. a curve. grayish brown. bricks. darker than above. 2 layers like upside down steps. covered in soot. flat wall like barnyard dirt followed by a thick cable bound tight. variety of thickness. four pairs stacked high with purpose.. maybe more.. leading to rocks, pebbles..

I'm thrown to a a game of hopscotch in the school yard.
That one time.
On the black top. Inhale. The smell of it on a hot day.
I think it was RedHawk. Despite my age.
I miss tether ball and the time it entailed. Concrete in tire.
I miss it all. Family aboard, where a fist is a toy and a custard cream is worth tears.

They sit down. The mother juggles it all. Mom has yellow dots for eary jewelery. Candy Dots never made that color. I don't care.
Actually, the cognition proves that I do.



I was wrong:
They did make that color, and I do care.
One may say I care a little too much.
Is there such a thing?
Caring too much?