Walking down Boneyen Street I spy Mrs. Calvin protesting, drilling the begonias about early a.m. runs to Alpha Centauri, where there's not much air but the carbon dioxide really flows, at least the rose from Beta Bot goes on record saying it's so.
Couple houses down, Mr. Wilkins? That's how he writes his name, Marvels at long-gone relatives sharing time with Elvis in the toaster, cheese whiz and microwave oven. Mrs. Hopscotch plays gin all day, all the time feeling the profound remorse.
Trillion, no last name, keeps answers in his mouth, well hidden. Washington Killeen Knocker, a boy of three and eight, asks why Trillion never has much to say. I just flash a mouth-full-of-cookie grin. Boneyen Steet keeps your mind moving, but your tongue quite still.
Sally Ride keeps thumbing the begonias, never looking at her name to get a clue as to what she really ought to do. Then Cynthia Twelve n-Two fills my belly with malted milkshakes until she leaves. They're best when they get there without glass, mouth or straw. She's special like Washington, though my insides are brightest when she's close to me.
After much wandering and daydreaming, I finally get home. In the backyard Travis Knight, Tom Gordon and Billy Ray are slapping baseballs like pucks, shooting baskets with bees, all the time winking, knowing how they really ought to do.
And me? Why I just sit here making up more problems so Boneyen Street don't ever really go away.