Boys chase each other:
Skinny feet, sinewy and brown in flip-flops, slap the street.
Below the trees.
They flash between blue railings.
Within shouting distance of their tenements.
Heads yanked back on blood thumped necks,
They dip and flick just out of the catcher's grip,
Curving their backs, bowed like dancers, away from finger tips.
Their laughter snatches in the trees.
They are kids out of time or place.
They've escaped.
100 or 1000 years ago.
100 or 1000 miles away.
Playing the same game.

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