two small girls, giggling, and STOP.
not anymore, time to go home.

and older now, they’ve got a new spell
in their twenties, talk in a small café,
aroma of perfume, coffee and cake
floating through the air.

dreaming of a chaser lost somewhere
in the distance perhaps, away in
Poland or Italy perhaps, just
walking and talking by the Vistula
or the Arno or nowhere perhaps.

just two old girls now, still giggling and STOP.
perhaps, but not anymore, it’s time to go home.

as wild tulips grow among tombstones,
scattered row after row.

(c) April, 1997, Steven H. Lee