windows down
the breeze rolls in
on a laugh
on a whim
chilling button noses
and fingers
gripping plastic, jumbo cups
filled with cherry coke slush
watery and cold
out of place on a winter's night
like us kids
swinging on the playground
nearing midnight
he, a king four years my senior
and I, his favorite wench
surveying our rumble-tumble kingdom
searching for forest gods in snow drifts
searching for them with soggy, dim embers
in between our chafing digits
fighting in the slide tunnel
heels over head
stuck like giants
in a world our peers so harshly
left behind
and he an adult,
my ice-eyed, sensuous king
and I an almost adult,
his gray-eyed, elfish wench
should have let this all go
but with the world weighing down
books, graves, hearts; all
our kingdom keeps us sane
maturing in make-believe
even if the world
frowns upon
and sees us as those
who never grow up