It's all winter legs here,
curled in scarfs of red,
boot lace tied tight to seal in the warmth.
Walls of emptiness flutter skirts, graze ankles,
solid nothing like a stronger glass.
Her tilted head, his own inclined to trace the
dust on her boots.
A glimpse of a face poking between brown-sweater shoulders,
soldiers of some greater empire in floral uniform,
legs crossed loosely,
patrols of them crossing in twos and threes
past the archway of the gym's one-toothed mouth.
They had no solidarity of soldiers,
nor the strength.
Instead, like silly schoolgirls,
they stumbled over straps of bags
and stretched their syllables into the
first notes of laughter,
their voices as sensual as an air raid alarm.
They stepped sure-footedly,
every pace a vow of forwardness,
a marching corps ever onward,
the banners of their hair catching
unanticipated breezes that
misguided the heartless counterfire of rival divisions
even as their rifle lunch bags crackled in their white fists.
They swung long jackets around their forms,
the bones protesting, pushing against the cloth like
trapped men flanked by greater loves.

One paused to ask his name.