Rucksack on her sore back
Outside the closed IKEA store,
She stares over a map
Turned on its side
While traffic continues straight along
The wind is a sister
Keeping secrets safe inside her embrace.
He didn't wait
Before he puttered away
Running a hand through his hair
Kept carefully unkempt.
Rain starts in feeble fits.
Waxy cars with empty side seats
Roll down windows with offers uncertain.
She shakes her long hair and smiles sadly.
It is easier to lift up your feet,
Letting the cycle
Pedal itself downhill.
The adults never paid
To correct the cracks
In the aging concrete.
The suburbs, though, are pretty.
The gates close behind every Escape.
Bikes don't weigh enough
To trigger the sensors.