June 1, 2016
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.