Telephone wires above are sizzling like a snare

Bright hot Nikes hit the blacktop under pink-purple hallelujah sunset. If this is summer, I can do this.

Run til my spit turns into pancake syrup. Run farther away and try to commit to the time it will take to get back. Commitment is tricky.

But I can feel my robot heart and lungs getting better until I don't feel them at all. 

The streets are thick with teenaging. Kids drunk on never having to go back to school again. Summer is promising me that thing of no consequences and being awake when I'm awake.

Maybe I am a teenager too.

Maybe I want you to know my robot heart.

Lucky for me that the muscles keep moving my legs forward. Lucky to laugh. Grateful to breathe.