There they are, in the yard
of the house down the street.
They wave like mad as I drive
to the grocery store, to the library,
to dinner out on a Friday night.
They drop the ball, the stick
thatís slaying a fiery dragonó
whatever theyíre doing and they
wave as if someone waving back
And then, sometime around thirteen,
they stop. They turn cool, quiet,
aloof and they donít wave as I drive
to the doctor, to the grocery store,
to an appointment I hate to keep.
There is no hand raised like a flag
that says, "Hey, Iím here and so are you."†
But wait. Grown men in ball caps
driving trucks hauling hay
or lumber or an old lawn mower
thatíll never run again raise a finger
from the top of the steering wheel
and they tilt their headsó
up now down in a salute that says,
"Hey, Iím still here and I see,
somehow, you are, too."
© Sarah Anne Loudin Thomas.
Used with the authorís permission.