Policemen Don't Wave at Children Anymore

This place, where policemen don’t wave at children anymore
Whiz by in cars like grenades, blinds pulled against the light
Eyes that are not used to the sun

While little ones climb concrete structures,
Hair pulled toward the clouds
Cream soda and windburn give the illusion of
Tiny painted warriors, lined up against the sun

While mamas turn their backs and text boyfriends or enemies
Small brown fingers flap in the wind like flags

I have to turn away from their hope

Because policemen don’t wave at children anymore
Not these children anyway.