Grass is cut. Morning dew makes it shimmer. Soon, leaves will fall.

It is August, and daylight fades earlier. Kids play tag under streetlights. Moms call them home.

In backyards throughout suburbia,  fire-pits burn an orange flame, and beers are handed out to neighbors. An overflowing ashtray sits on the deck next to a cactus that can not breathe. Mom lights another Virginia Slim. You’ve come a long way, baby.

And I look on from my bedroom window at the stars, wishing I could ride one far, far away. Never to return.