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
that's slaying a fiery dragon—
whatever they're doing and they
wave as if someone waving back
meant everything.
And then, sometime around thirteen,
they stop. They turn cool, quiet,
aloof and they don't 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, I'm here and so are you." 

But wait. Grown men in ball caps
driving trucks hauling hay
or lumber or an old lawn mower
that'll never run again raise a finger
from the top of the steering wheel
and they tilt their heads—
up now down in a salute that says,
"Hey, I'm still here and I see,
somehow, you are, too."

© Sarah Anne Loudin Thomas.
Used with the author's permission.