Colonial times

The balls they drop, they scatter, or are they squared
for girls tangling in social parties, still scheming under the
guise of gangsters playing within the rules, of bikes tangled
about the dirt, barely transgressed with Spring, a nightmare
for freezing, for refrigerated lives of weeks past, they
barely register to dangling legs stuck to pedals, quickly
skirmishing the lane, a healthy dose of aerobic wheels.

They'll be twins by the time it's really spring, taking turns
with sisters, house guests of play time, swinging from
house to house, panicking with current dance, ballet and
tap are lively art houses, there and swinging tennis across
the ages, as they eat hourly their fancy hearts, dressed to
make the next one as real as the culdesac that melds into
the grocery store, with plenty of candy for the next game.

© 2015 Larry Ingram