When your friend tells you: “these kids

When your friend tells you: “these kids

will never understand”
time’s weight sneaks up on you;
your kneecap shakes and you wonder if

it’s going to hurt in the morning
the way mom’s joints
ache. she bent down to nurture

us kids—now adults. we raise
kids of our own, and bend
down to pick up toys on the floor.

at night, when i’m outside and
the wind shakes the chimes,
it sounds like the bell&

class ends. we spill into the courtyard
and the principal says stop
playing around. you’re going to hurt

some body.
we didn’t understand how, soon,
it would.

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