A young woman peddling fast,
she’s muffled up
in a rakish hat and scarf,
balanced at her back
a child riding the wheel.
The mother intent on getting there fast,
the kid’s laughter heating her up.
Later in the museum a display
keeps pulling me back
to a pair of rescued stars
in frayed cases,
on how they should be washed,
their yellow dye all leached out,
six points still intact,
next to a hand written note
in a thick square carpenter’s pencil.
Creased and hurriedly signed,
this request for a child’s exemption.
Imagine if permission was denied
the limp cloth star unwrapped one night,
tacked carefully on the child’s breast.
The girl flies on
filling my window with her shape
framed for a moment then quickening
into the wind as if the world exhaled.