Some children are pounding leaves
on the stones— slippery
leaves of the hibiscus, a stray
petal streaked with coral. A little
scatter of detergent and water, a bent
piece of wire— and late afternoon
light floods through a prism
of bubbles. The blur in the road
is the dust raised by feet rushing
then jumping into packing boxes.
World of makeshift joys: thunk
of a fruit stone meeting its sling-
shot target, and from an upstairs
window, the ice cream bell sound
of a typewriter carriage return.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.