Asphalt remembers hopscotch ghosts
and cracked four-square windows
where pasty-faced children played
until the last bell rang.
“Tommy, throw it over here.”
One of a dozen red balls bouncing
in and out of the lines
while the rhythm is kept
by little girl skirts
as the rope hits the ground.
Asphalt remembers tear-stained cheeks,
scraped knee skids
and the sound of gathered laughter,
of years tied together
with broken shoestrings
and French fried potatoes.
Playground voices etched in cracks
on abandoned school grounds.