A young girl, clapping her hands under
each upraised knee in succession,
as she lopes down the concrete
towards the bus station.
She’s on vacation; her parents
lag behind, held back by
suitcases they pull, like wagons
in harness, as if pack animals.
A young boy, who’s just learned that
by blowing out of the side of his
lower lip, he can make his hair flip
up. He’s been told to wait outside the rest room
if he doesn’t have to go, and not talk to anyone.
He pays no attention, absorbed in the game
of self-manipulation. He looks only as long
at each passer-by as he has to.
Around them, commuters stream homeward,
their garments stuck at the armpits, wet with sweat.
The sun is still high in the west, and memories
of lost baseballs and skinned knees return.
