It’s rained.
Crawdads swept up on the street.
I chase them down with small bare-feet.
Across the street, there rises steam.
The neighbor makes hot oysters sing.
Carolina, is still that child—
She’s in my heart, she’s roaming free.
No need to brush your hair, little Bee.
I like it stringy.
I like black feet.
The story here is one of Me.
It’s where I copped the name “Beezee”
Where I road bikes and scraped my knees.
I ducked and dived and climbed up trees.
It’s forever and a day so sweet.
Nostalgia is my favorite street.