Puddle Cutter

I remember my cherry red cracked trike and I
cutting figure 4's and 8's
on sheets of clear fallen eyes

Pedals whetted and wheeled on squeaky streets
broad strokes and stray s-s-smears
turn spots of grey to skies again

Round rubbered tires, trite and true
giggled grand geysering oceans
and tickled flat clouds to piece

I walk the graven streets of sheeted sky
Mirror bright shoes stepping nimble
and dry as my umbrella hitched arm

Cracking a secretive glance around
I cut a puddle through to ground.