Edge of the Asphalt Boundary

Beyond the chalked lines,
where four square balls
go to die
I pick dandelions that survive,
 at the edge of the asphalt
 boundary

Voices, calling all at once
A mixture a  potpourri words
 put into a bowl that stink
of stale mediocrity

 Cracks from the rain make
 patterns like the highways
of life
Tracing the familiar road,
 has worn down the print
 on my finger.
Drops of blood drip,
 landing like tiny red stop
signs in my mind.

My boots unlaced at the top,
wipes out those chalked lines
leaving white dust in its wake

Those preoccupied with the
 norm look, as I emerge in a
 cloud shaped like me  
At the edge,
of the asphalt boundary