Academic Couple

for friends, disappointed at not having children

You wait for children like an old yellow
bus, dogged as a Monday dawn, without
any fuss at all. You swing out that arm

with absolute authority, without
a doubt that cars and trucks will fall in line
in front of you and behind, like days completely

unaware of their future as months, as
years, as whatever else they are. Your color
claims an awkward attention, both caution

and delight, a promising security you’ve
been built to have tested. After you
accept that no children will come, you

swing that shingle back into yourself, release
the brake and roll down the street again

with large, bright dignity, continue without
hesitation or question down that familiar road

toward school.

Mary M. Brown