Roses

oven-hot through the
soles that slap the
sidewalk and:
are you saved?

yes, Roses, are you
saved?

the question hangs in
the stilly air like dandelion-down
floating, here and there before
setting down their resilient seeds,
growing up, obstinate, even between
pavement cracks and
where building meets
sidewalk, sprouting green

and arms, fleshy-fat, rest on
pillowed windowsills,
surveying the passing
scene

as children chalk out
games she chalks up
the score, nil, nil,
and nil by mouth for
some time to come

the rubber ball, fleshily
pink, she only half-
startled, catches it, the
warmth of it surprising
her, throws it back to
the boy (she knows motherless,
fatherless)

he catches it: smiles
she goes on her way, saved
or unsaved...