The running girl,
with feet that mean to fly
always trips; her legs still fight
the ground, it always slips
when ankles kick the hurdle
that is not hers;
she flees what is

the hopscotch girl's,
who jumps off one's and two's
springs off chalked-up boxes
so she can never lose;
always searching for her landing,
following another's footprints to a standing
bounds away from

the listening girl,
who sits to reach for words unheard
from other open mouths, still warm;
empty air must be fulfilled,
any simple noise that spills
into her ears that can't be filled,
so long as they never hear

the fatherless girl,
left to run for herself,
flinging child's games from feet
that felt the throw of laughter
and stilled these legs--they need to run
to flee their absent master;
listening for any solid sound,
to leap away from, then run after.

10/02/2007

Author's Note: Where are you going?

Posted on 10/03/2007
Copyright © 2024 Matthew Zangen