with the warmth of a wood floors bathed in summer sun,
such high chairs to mount up on,
tact up on to the rubber walls,
pictures, and tickets and memories of fun.
alas i lack just lately dreams on which to run,
the cogs are clicking through the motion,
trundling along, fumbling for the starting gun,
skating on a chalk board, bathed in summer sun,
remorseful of my memories knowing what they become.