By Revti Gupta

The trees scatter notes of darkness over
The children’s play, for they must soon journey
Behind a noisy curtain: telephones
And taxes, bank accounts and some obscenely
Straightforward bills. These chords of dying light,
And slightly off-key smash of trombones–
Such hellish music is children’s birthright.

There is no way to stop the marching band:
The balding flautist, drummer past his prime,
The fat conductor whose baton swings through
The summer air. I wish he’d keep his time
Better– for I can feel the beat in my bones
And I can tell his rhythm is askew.
But kids do not think yet of metronomes.

For what do they know of those
Weighty silences huddled on bedsprings
And dinner tables between lying
And untruth, and such other adult things.
Today at least they do not think of death.
Meanwhile the arc of the empty swing
Measures out time with ever-shortening breath.