This one survives on the page where arguably better poems got cut for not being good enough because I remember the central image of the chldren fading into the distance so fondly. It was an ironic take on a pastoral poem where the types of images that might be used to describe quiet, eurocentric village life is instead describing an American apartment complex and watching children play from my balcony.
Children, the color of a quiet rain, Descend out of the twilight Into the humming distance of streetlamps And illuminated living room windows. Faces aglow, intense emotions, Playing out as conquerors and sane people And being their own young dreams, seemingly So grown-up and mature, in the context of But a handful of years, and a half. Five or six of them, Seven on some especially loud days, Four that once, last July, vacation week, Right up to the end of the road, And back, a number of times. Neighbors turn, Acquiesce With smiles and polite acknowledgements. The corner swallows them, the rain is gone, Though one can still pick up A faint laughter of footsteps.