Here, for us,

Streetlamps hover over concrete,

lighting the way for the clacks of skateboards

gliding over the pavement perfections.

White light bulbs radiate through black

branches of landscaped trees

with overgrown roots

bulging through sidewalks stamped

1952.

Green Kentucky bluegrass

turns purple in the astral glow,

painting houses with crawl spaces in shades

only moonlight can make.

Freeway overpasses,

some miles away,

twinkle with headlights, fireflies,

thousands upon thousands,

gridlocked to the horizon.

Here, for us,

far from earth’s womb,

the mating calls of birds

are the car horns of angry drivers;

the whistles of a breeze through pine needles

are the hums of tires gripping asphalt;

and a city park,

the closest thing we have

to freedom.