Flashes of crimson and
Tan aluminum dazzle the eye
As they fly by in the light
Of one of the few sunny days
In southeast Michigan.
My tiny hand is gripped tight
In the frail fingers of my Omi —
Ensuring I don’t run
Headstrong into danger.
Some things are meant for
The street.
And I am bound to the curb.
I peel with laughter at
The sight of each vehicle
Whistling by as though the universe
Was making some type of joke
Only I understood.
My Omi’s cheeks rise into
A familiar smile as she
Points out each new oncoming
Car like elephants at
The circus.
We have no where to go.
We are two doors from
Home,
And only here for the show.
Age kills novelty until
It is reborn in the
Eyes of youth.