Some moms but mostly babysitters
fill the concrete steps as they wait
for their little preschoolers, empty
strollers parked below and beside
the rising stair wall, skeletal vehicles
left in their own little lot, a rising
breeze gently rolling then twirling
the strollers backward until sudden
crosswinds make them collide like
bumper cars and though none of the
moms or babysitters notice—they're
busy greeting the children and their
teachers—no stroller falls or escapes
as they seem too absorbed in the sheer
fun of knocking about and tangling up,
as if through all the hours of hauling
their charges—imprinting their shapes
and stains and smells—the strollers had
drawn in the essence of each child, had
become shadow-kids, kids—with all
the adults preoccupied—wildly alive.