My Block

This prose poem was inspired by NPR's Morning Edition. 

My childhood block was a grid of gravel roads running through a newborn subdivision just outside of town. Red-tailed hawks and wide-eyed deer watched us bike down those dusty roads on long, hot summer afternoons. Crashes were painful. Decades later, I still smell the rusty tang of blood-soaked dust, feel the bite of antiseptic on raw palms, and taste the tart, sweet comfort of cold lemonade.