The violators

Christian Century, Oct 18, 2000 by Elizabeth Rivers

   Weekdays--her gray hair curled on pastel
   pink--she crouches toward the gutter,
   brooms leaf litter, gassy plastic
   bags; he heaves his gear--the blazing
   traffic cones, flags in or out,
   clean garbage cans. "Beware of Dog"
   hangs twice on iron. "No Loitering"'s
   screwed to a warehouse wall. When I
   start bouncing tennis balls, he stomps
   down his steps and glares.

   Now
   they breathe deeply, slowly sway
   and never touch--in silent Sunday
   step to mass--old wordless partners
   loitering and blind with dreams.
   They won't see me play or hear
   how spire-high a mockingbird
   tonics the air or feel the young sun
   blooming--on his white shirt, her hair.