Lost Beautiful Things
P Patti Masterman
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I can hear the locusts of summer singing
In their way, and the lost child inside
Is still crying for popsicles from the ice cream truck
And garden sprinklers to run through
On feet that don't hurt at the end of the day
Still missing all the dogs we buried, with crocodile tears
And the impertinence of being eight years old again
And the recklessness of knowing nothing much of how the world is run
And the beauty of not knowing that you didn't know.
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