Band-Aids

As a little kid, red was a picture perfect summer.

Sounds of the ice cream truck sent every kid in the neighborhood running

A couple of dollars could buy you any type of popsicle you desired;

I liked the red ones, where crimson lips would make

My sugary actions caught red-tongued.

Popsicles that dripped crimson on the sidewalk

Ants would flood the crime scene we created

Crimson like blood

Scraping our knees on the blacktop

Band aids shielded us from the pain we felt

Years later, red on the sidewalk

No longer meant melted popsicles

Amongst news of mass shootings

Red took on a different meaning

No longer was red the color of popsicle pools

In the blazing summer heat

Red was real

Band aids could no longer heal these wounds

People would flood the scene like ants

Holding on to the last breath of the child

Lying before them

The truth slipped between their fingers

Band-aids can not heal these wounds.