Street was a dirt road.
a summer the county sent a tar truck
spew its sticky mess, holding down the dust.
felt sympathy for the unlucky vegetation at the edges,
green or yellow self sticking out from the sides of the new road
truck never drove down the Lane.
Lane was a refuge on a hot summer day.
A joy to ride a bicycle
its jungle interior of bright dark light, feeling the wind of one's own
one car needed its access. Otherwise,
it was a playground for the neighborhood kids.
I was caught at the other end of the Lane without my bike.
was starting to rain. A
fellow fourth-grader, we called him "Lucky,"
riding his bike. He saw my
predicament and said,
give you a ride on my handlebars if you promise not to tell
been forty-five years, and I've never told anyone until now.