I’d know it was 10:15 by the whistles and screams.
I could take a break, leave the dissertation to wag itself
like a dogless tail while I made a new cup of tea.
If I put my elbows on the sill, pressed
my cheek to the screen, I could see the source
of the tumult--mid-morning recess at Lincoln Elementary.
If I looked down five stories I could read the numbered roof
of the 202 bus as it gasped and heaved,
then ground through the light, its gritty breath
flapping awnings all down Main Street.
On this morning, the sun struck like a clapper
against the lip of the lake, rang in the day like the Angelus.
Leaping the breakwaters, resounding the littered streets,
the light broke in chimes around the feet
of a Pakistani father and his black-haired daughters
making their way toward the Lucky Platter,
the purple line stop, the sidewalk tables and napping dogs,
the Sunday papers shaken out like new wings.
He leaned sideways to hold the hand of the younger,
the same as my father when I learned to walk.
He walked by the curb, between her and danger.
The elder was lagging, softly complaining,
until he spun, slapped the morning right out of her,
struck her so hard she fell to her knees,
the edge of her dress swung like a bell
and her head bowed like praying.
The last of the long shadows backed under
their lintels; the white cement,
bright now, rushed up through the trees.
The little one, frightened, reached
for her father, who retook her hand,
and they turned, walked away. She stood,
faltered, then followed, making no more noise,
now, than a scab torn from a knee.