In my sullen compact, I drive the few miles linking
the adult world of work and the adult world of home,
bouncing between the cushions of both -
feeling the walls behind thin insulation.
The breath of summer sweeps down from the clouds.
It's going to rain. Probably within the hour.
The windows in the bedroom are open.
Alongside me speeds in single file
three boys on bicycles, racing
alongside time. The clouds are nonexistent.
They are no victims if the rain drops
down. They don't mind. They fly
around the traffic of sturdy drivers
listening to NPR and the weather reports,
windows rolled up to hold in arctic air.