under the shade
of the huge
coffeehouse maples,
where the receipts
of what has been
spent so far
flutter round my feet
like the dying
leaves soon to be
scurrying over
the crushed gravel
when Fall rolls round
again, I cannot
help but overhear
the mindless droning small
talk of grownups
behind me—all
the while
my eyes riveted
on the children hard
at play in the play-
ground opposite,
and though not
a praying man
myself, I swear
I can almost
hear the desperate
small white cry
of the child I once was
pleading with me,
telling me don’t
give it a second
thought, no matter
what you might be
thinking, make the best
of it, it’s all we’ve got.
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