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.