by Gene Paré
By noon, summer had its cap on backwards.
Dogs behind fences panted in the shade.
A scrawny boy on a mountain bike jumped
the curb and disappeared up a driveway.
She sat on the green bench, schedule in hand,
waiting for the bus and some sort of breeze.
Beside her, a backpack with all her stuff.
A rosary of ants worried the route
between a Snickers wrapper, a trash can,
and a crack in the sidewalk beneath her.
An expired pass lay in the gutter;
it flipped as a van sped by, then stayed put.
She stiffened when she thought she recognized
the driver. No, just her mind playing tricks.
The green O coiled in a landscaped yard
called to her, Cross the street and get a drink.
A bright rectangle seared the living room
window. She wondered what talk show was on.
A swallow on the TV antennae
hopped from tine to tine, balanced on one foot
then the other before winging away.
She imagined herself anyplace else.
She checked the schedule one last time and fanned
her face. She gave up, folded it away
in her pack and dug around for a stick
of gum. The bus will get here soon, she thought
as the van came by again, at a crawl.
At her feet, the ants left chocolate prints
that went undetected and soon were gone.