Fingers tangled
Like rusting railroad tracks
Dangle over a fallen-autumn road.
The “rough kids” joke
And smoke,
Creating memories
Beneath the seldom used bridge.
I stand out among them.
Yet I feel like I belong.
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Wow, this poem creates such a vivid in my head. Your words conjure up the most descriptive image. The smell of smoke from the "rough kids" lingers with the leaves (which, i now realize, aren't exactly in your poem, but come to mind with "rustling" and "fallen-autumn road"). I like : )
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