I can still hear the slow jam jingle of the ice cream truck gliding along past our yellow house like it was riding on rails Our yellow house that was

Pick a star, any star & I’ll reach straight up and grab it for you put it right inside your hot little hand we had some times and we had

for Alex — a golden shovel, after Andrea Gibson The sky is still keening and so am I. What is too many tears? I let myself flounder in the grief

It will probably happen when I’m at work, and he recruits a nosy, but caring friend with an AI-powered search engine. They’ll hush behind a grandfather tree two boys wide

Your gaze becomes a stare, forcing your views without saying a word. Your eyes tell me a story. One where I fall to the wayside. You think I am soft,