White Creek

I
The circle looped in on itself
no start and end but the
numbers on the houses,
crabgrass plots back to back
like brothers in a hotel bed.
We ran barefoot on the new tar road
run wince hobble walk
with gravel between our toes.
We roamed free, no collars no fences
like the transient dogs that wandered in.
Salt-brined babies in the Texas bake,
we hid and sought until the sun went down. 

II
Mailboxes welcomed us, red flags aloft
in soldierly rows saluted,
guards to hopeful letters.
We played postman to hand-scrawl
on white pages, blue lines.
Check yes or no and flattened cootie catchers
passed from hand to hand.
A dry breeze whipped the stripes and stars
atop the neighbor’s pole.
No purple mountains, no amber waves
Just us at the end of the road
before our parents called us home.