White sky scribbled with branches seen

Through the filthy window of the

Number fifty-three – it's autumn.

Kids in brand new uniforms

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Spit gum in mother-combed hair

And tear things up. Cold white faces

Stare out-of-bodily at

Nothing. Ill fitting teeth open

-

Every now and then to discuss

So-and-so in the hospital

The lack of hope, her poor

Husband. Driver hums and doesn't

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See the hares running alongside –

Giving a treat of a performance

To a prammed baby, tired of

Crying, and his sister who requests

-

An answer for the veiny branches'

Persistent, unwelcome question marks.