Kid down the street swears that he is a black belt I seen him practicing in the field beside Roosevelt Rumor has spread that he owns a real sword He'll do a split kick if you hold the board I have no doubt that his skills come in handy But I get by fine with a jump rope and candy Never that taken with the motorcycle I dream my way through using minimal muscles Up in the canopy with a tiny pad of paper Summon the warm rain to rust out the staples And draw the ghost up from the asphalted bus stop In newspaper hats we march toward the black top With a finger on my forehead I look for a sun sign Lead me toward the belted equator line I want to lie down, half North and half South The turn of the globe realign my spine No need for specialists, needles or collagen Heat and humidity make me a kid again