It is seven or eight and I sit here on this porch that wasn’t before.
In the distant horizon the sun is putting on its mantle, its bed sheet.
And here, they run in front of me,
A boy of seven and his friends and others, all in elementary.
They go from north to south and sometimes west.
The trailer that I’ve lived in sits where the downhill road becomes leveled.
Yesterday I was nine through thirteen when I saw a lady near the place where I sit today.
Her eyes were golden, like gold fish, like the golden sunset reflected on the water at the end of the horizon.
The kids on their bikes evade the *** holes on the road as they come downhill speeding up.
Some go straight to where I can’t see them
Others turn right, to the road that ends in front of a little forest, just below the sun.
I’ve seen this before, it was yesterday.
I didn’t remember, but today I remembered.
Is the kid of seven who looks at me, seeing, feeling what I felt yesterday?
Is this what she felt by seeing what I see today?
The kids sweaty and blushing from the heat, smiling, surrounded by old trailers on the streets of Fairlane, will they ever leave this place, or will they be like us?
The boy smiles and waves hi to me.
In his eyes I can see what I saw yesterday.
The person in his eyes nods gently with watered eyes.
I hope he leaves.