Childhood, After

Bikes howl past, stitching chrome through morning,
shadows nicking the curb like knives.

Wind combs a fence of plastic ponies—
sun-bleached, one-eyed—while the swing’s hinge
keeps time with a promise it can’t keep.

A beach of dust, not water: salt pans, bottle tops,
a beacon wired to nothing. Two girls hold robot toys,
red diodes worrying the wind—small hearts that won’t decide.

The city hardens to scaffolds and stone.
Road grit freckles the tongue. In a field, a scarecrow
wears a boy’s blue school shirt, arms learning how to hold.

Here the turn: the gate clicks shut behind us.
Marbles trade for passwords; lunchboxes for lanyards.
Steel learns our names quicker than birds do.

Evening refuses to blink. The swings turn to weather.
On the scarecrow’s sleeve, one bright salt ring holds—
exactly the size of a child’s hand.