The thirteenth of 155 poems about the Beltline by Lee Butler. 

Scrap plywood words hung by wire to the webbing
Were the dangling nouns chosen by children?
My pinkie wrapped around yours
as you keep me on the inside
as did the gentlemen on the city sidewalks of yore
The Post Oak which needs a yellow ribbon round it's middle
Your refrain each week, "The distance seems shorter."
My response, "Because we know the route and what comes next."
The nearly summer nineties refreshed by the breezes that arrive
Just before we get too hot.
Reaching the underpass
refrigerated by the dark concrete and gurgles of water.
Tiny varieties and variations of vibrations above our heads
as we breathe the cool.
The chocolate mulch, mounded up
used as a bench by a runner and his panting Bulldog
Holding hands homeward
we step off the path
and encounter
two plastic soldiers placed atop a mailbox
posed by a grown-up child
a tiny duel in our Sunday landscape.