He turns cartwheels in the crosswalkon my block where “drivers”are known to raise wheelslike planes.                  Friends in tow, two his size cut lowto the pavement & a third w/his froin the wind.                  They’re so small, you think.Doesn’t           someone           miss           them?The gymnast looks up@ your sweat through the cutof your lawn & says “Hello”in a voice that belies his body, like a songborn years before his run. You returnthe greeting, make sure he hears youover the hum of the mower.                                          & they’re off, the worldnot big enough to contain the wonderin their eyes for what they might findon this corner, the next—all the streetsthat they call home. How you find yourselfwanting something for childrenwho aren’t your own.                  Be careful, you say,(maybe out loud, maybe in your head)& the next time you see them, they walkon the telephone wiresover the street, dance high aboveour same numbing days, carsthat rev & spin, drivelike stop signs are suggestions.                  Maybe they’re safer on the wiressince it’s not New Year’s Eve & revelersaren’t sending automatic resolutionsto the sky. They turn, balance,never miss a beat. Turn,balance, laugh, dare oneto backflip say, “Oooooooooh!”when they dolike it was everything. & maybeit is& alwaysshould be.                  May you see anxious carslearn to crawl. May you knowendless cartwheels& friendswho follow& friendswho leadso you can be back-bone or tide. Whateverkeeps you free.