Tired popsicle heads bounce back and forth between the worlds of grass and perspiring skin. Little feet dance, unhinged, on the slate of cement dreams. They follow the pulse of some unknown melody, familiar only to the naive of heart. They are free, like the swings which carry their bodies. They don’t know of the chains which fetter them and they don’t have to. To them, growing up is a fable. Soon the children will feel cold – cold despite the suffocating heat, cold although the yellow circle in the sky burns. They will lie on the grass, the very grass which held the bodies of the melting popsicles years ago, hungering for something more sustaining than food. They will want to understand the unknowable arches of the moon, though it evades them, refusing to reveal its truths. They will want to write poems in the dark of the night, to escape from the phony light of the burning sun. They will know the word phony, holding Salinger’s Catcher close to their chests like a bible and they will wonder when, or if, in this life they’ll be able to catch someone, when in this life they will be able to catch themselves, save themselves from falling. They are teenagers. Not far from here lies the playground of the parents, lacking the swing-sets and slides, yet bursting with adventure nonetheless. Their play is work; their work is watching the children play. They feel the sun beating down on their lukewarm chests. They wonder how the time passed by. Soon the parents’ skin will turn crinkly and old as if it’s forever being bathed under water. Baptize, baptize, baptize. This water is fluid memory, full of reminiscences of moments past. Johnny, she calls to her grandson on the swing-set, but she doesn’t know if it’s his name. This is old age.