A coiled cord of amber bulbs blink,
strung up on rusty iron poles,
above a nearly worn out trampoline.
Where in better weather Chinese children
jump to calliope music into another world -

Their hands reaching higher, higher,
fanning the air like wild birds
flying off to a tropical breeze.
I'd watch and pretend I knew
what they were reaching for.

But now the birds have flown
and have taken the stars on a string.
And the bundled-up children walk
with their dolled-up mothers outside the playground.
A child points a finger and cries to jump.

No, we can't be late for the car show,
a mother explains and reaches down a hand
to console her child. Her free hand smooths
a wind-mussed curl; then brushes an imaginary spot
on her new crimson camel hair coat.

At the playground's next gate
old men from the countryside,
dressed in eight-button army coats,
black cotton shoes, and green caps
of the old revolution, stop to rest

The donkey and cart, and wait their turn
to hit croquet balls in cold dust.
They, too, remember the sunny days,
watching the younger people pass,
pondering aloud to each other - These modern ones,

What are they reaching for?