Towels on the asphalt for its
sunny, little girls,
lying between their
glittering, bicycular toys
with their training wheels and
rearview mirrors galore.

Scurry from ants
as they crawl out of their pebbly
shadow. and into
your light.

The phobia of outdoors
for the dread of a passing bee/fly/snake/anything-that-moves;
Mum's tending to her 'mums, and
father's opening the pool, and
swings are swinging back and forth, and
up and down, and
back and forth... over patches of
mud, grass seed and buttercups (held up to
the chins of sisters,
scared for anything and everything).

They will run and hide
by the creek, with their dog
behind the neighbor's house. as always.
Nothing really matters. It seems,
nothing ever will. Well-- not here,
not now, at least.

And at least for
five minutes more,
they can stay out with the grass and
the leaves 'til dinner comes. or the sun sets. or
a wasp chases them off the swingset.