Their throats roared to Harley heights, exhaust sounds
of “vroom, vroom,” jarring old folks on front porch swings
nipping at harsh coffee from assorted mugs on the first
spring morning when they could sit outside since frigid air
laid down the snow that smashed their jonquils, and now
here were these kids in ball caps and fat legs rearing high
on plastic tricycles with mammoth wheels tearing up sidewalks,
skinny sisters chasing aside them barefoot, screaming:
“It’s my turn, it’s my turn now” — but no, they kept going,
never looked back, never noticing how those little girls
banged their toes on cement cracks, the sun-struck hot shots
clutched the handle bars of their bikes, cranking for more
and more speed that led them to collide, mouths ajar,
scattered into a tableau of bodies tumbling forward from
twisted oversized bikes into bloodied shock
Still upright beside them, tiny breasts heaving, the girls stood
silently, fearlessly, blouses wet against soft skin, faces held
lovely against the light