Equator Line

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