A playground, in a park. One lady
raises to the top of the slide a ball
of newspaper, gives it a kiss:
'Ready . . . set . . . go!' Another holds
a lampshade in her hands, smoothing
its chenille bangs. 'My daughter,
you should see her dance—
she's already won two prizes.'
'Did I tell you mine—he's three—can already write?'
A girl, in line behind them with her son,
is listening. She tightens her grip on his hand,
hoping no one
will notice he's real, and alive.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem