Quick step out the door. Leave home. Don't breathe.
No bristle if winds are unknown.
It's good you give me a neck turn, a what now, what's next?
At the park everyone wants to play ball, belly laugh, sit at tables, drink cherry blossom air. For years.
A wiry dog runs so happy. Gusto, gusto, little blond dog!
And, now your tongue's draped over one side of your mouth.
Isn't it always like that? You thirst for home.
We begin again. Slower, sweeter than before.
The walk. The labyrinth home.
[Re-playing Mary's prompt with a new poem for Real Toads]