Now You See Them

Within our neighborhoods,
on our very streets,
there are little voids,
blanks in the atmosphere,
negative spaces.
You can see them,
but you can't see them.
They hold astute
conversations with animals,
choreograph insects,
ride tricycles on dark sidewalks,
while young mothers draw
curtains and watch
through windows, where
they can see them,
but they can't see them.

Within our neighborhoods,
in our very houses,
there are little voids,
shaped like
handprints,
fingerprints,
footprints.
Middle-aged women
scrub diligently
windows,
walls,
floors,
mirrors.
They clean them,
but they don't clean them.

Within our neighborhoods,
in our very homes,
couples young and old
with child-sized
holes in their hearts
peek through cracked doorways,
where child-shaped voids
sleep in little beds.
They look into each other's eyes,
and
smiles smiles
which are there,
but are not there.

Within our neighborhoods,
in our very garages,
tricycles
rust.

© John Kennan January 1991