poems by owen lucas

Torrington butt-end outskirt street
the kids are out in skirts and shorts
trying to shout down cars from behind
their rickety chipboard lemonade stand.
Running round the lawn, pink and blue
blobs wavering in haze like artistic
notions of children, they yell 25¢
and trampoline, sugar junkie balls
of energy, frisbeeing and jumping on
the dog that moans from its fur,
they drop ice cubes in the jug, by
the pile of empty sherbert straws.
Any middling gopher happens to take
a stroll, even puts a foot out on
the porch, they're gonna get jumped,
force-fed pink unknown, skipped at
with skipping ropes, yo-yo'd into
the next life in all probability.