I saw seven girls in saris
Move up our street; How sweet

Ignore the four islander boys
outdoor arm chair guffaws, to-all.

On the hill crest clouds
Explode in rose and mauve

Pass by squinting through glass
ordinary folk engulfed

In their shadowy flickering,
Made to fit, capsules for living

We walk out into the night,
Dogs in tow, follow that same path

Up and down not seeing,
Not good at seeing, trite.
11/3/11