Chalk-Dusted dreams

Anshi P. 9th - Clarksburg, MD
I always thought stick figures were like skeletons,
facedown, legs splayed, pink lines
oftentimes rendered in a toddler’s world

Scooter rides and unicorn fantasies,
string cheese and tantrums,
zoo trips and water bottles
with fading tv show character prints

These artists will grow into the lost ones who
graffiti the hollow insides of metro stations,
cursing over runny spray paint

I bend down and blow on the already-
smeared chalk drawing as if it were a harvested cupful
of dandelion seeds tethered to the Earth,
through firm roots tunneling into sparse soil

A lopsided oval teetering on its shriveled pink stick figure,
the twig with forks for branches is surrounded by smears of red [*this word is a part of the last line*]
Arms flailing, the figure is dead

The pavement is discolored by trees without leaves,
as if the heart-shaped outlines were too complicated
for the grubby-handed artist,
mimicking their fickle world

The brittle creatures leave ugly residual prints on
my white shoes and I walk,
over the art engraved on cement
A children's tattoo that will wash away in the rain