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,
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