“Come! Let’s go to bed and make fun of people.”
Owners think they’re owners, but I know
I’m not. The running lights of the flight
Approaching Saint George from Denver
Shine in the early night. There was a novel
Started near here somewhere. There are
Children I can hear, down there, creating
Games and play out of shouting noises
And something, a ball maybe, they hit hard.
Owners think they’re owners but they’re not.
We’re borrowers to the last bossy kid saying
To the others, these are the real rules, obey
Them or not. Obey them, I said, or you’re lost.
The light has crossed the sky and landed
Out of sight. I’d like to make fun of owners
But owners are owners and I can’t if I’m not.
The kids shriek and command each other
And themselves, other selves, in the parking lot.
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