It was two-thirty.
Tooth-hurty.
There were three little siblings on the street,
But not happy enough, not quite smiling enough, yet.
They drew in chalk and tried to peel back the tar.
It was warm; another glorious day in suburbia.
Each child thought precisely one thing,
The thought being: "I can hear- I thought I heard- music."
And indeed, for being carried upon the back of a breeze
Was a melody, quite sweet and fair-
And, with a giggle and a shout, they tripped gaily inside
To where their smiling father was stretched out on the lounge
He thrust some coins at them and resumed his dead-eyed vigil.
And then, when the little sweet melody grew loud, then louder, then loudest:
Oh! Please stop, mister!
We would like to purchase some of your fine sweets.
The candy-striped man tapped the brakes with his shiny toe
Took their money, in exchange for the little vials of opal liquid.
The biggest one sighed and swallowed it in one gulp,
The middle child stuck a straw in hers
And the littlest one took tiny sips.
Then, like a real family, they held hands
And lay down upon the soggy tar
Until their dead, unstaring eyes had made little casts set deep within the road.
Nothing hurt.
Except their three jaws,
That were hardened into three perfect smiles.