Five tiny bottles line the shelf on Evans Road
inside one scoots a baby crawdad in creek water 
   another holds a lightening bug (dead, stolen from a Mason jar)
pressed with the feeling of wet grass on bare feet
Surprisingly two others contain
   a whiff of Aqua Net (prelude to mom and dad’s date night)
and the buttery salty taste of popcorn
  the crunch of tires on gravel
fills the fifth full of trepidation