Toddlers glance sideways our way,
startled by the shadows we cast.

Remember the long hot summers
of childhood? They ended with traces

of wild grape and storms of gnats.
As our friends lie flat in hospitals

or gnaw at their shawls and weep
we ply our routine till it squeals

like the sodden ghosts of prey.
The grass in front of the bookstore

conceals a thousand secrets
only the smallest dogs can rout.

The toddlers speak to the dogs
in a language we've forgotten.

Their parents look as puzzled
as parents always look when

the genius of childhood exposes
its pink underbelly and howls.

Seated at a black metal table,
we sip our coffee and consider

how best to unfold a day shaped
like a sailboat in search of wind.

The shadows we cast are part of us
the way digestion is part of us.

Such local effects matter more
than the nuclear stockpiles lurking

in well-lit places underground.
The toddlers look over their shoulders

like owls observing prey. The light
that casts our cast-iron shadows

whimpers with apologies no one
over sixty or under ten

accepts, the angles too rigid,
the scripture too illegible,

and the grass evolving so quickly
it will surely be flesh by noon.