Evy, Ivy, Over
Dandelion slowly growing out of the crack.
Born on the line, betcha' broke some mama's back.
At dewpoint, you steal what you need from the street,
always taking odds against the white-hot heat.
Your children escape, blowing weed through the park,
higher than the pipes on a meadow lark.
Dandelions push around the bench all day,
gettin’ plucked up, wished on, then blown away.
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