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

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