Kindergarten kisses

We could see her classmates already lined up when we arrived.
"You're not late" I exclaimed, pulling up to the curb
at the same moment her teacher opened the classroom door.
"Hurry, hurry, you can make it!" I encourage, hearing her rustle
into her backpack, half as big as she is, scooting across the seat,
hopping out, closing the door not hard enough, starting away,
stopping again, pausing just long enough to blow me a kiss, then turning
and running at full five-year-old speed down the sidewalk.

I idle by the curb and watch her slow progress, the backpack
bouncing against legs, puffy coat sleeves flailing, wisps of hair lifting
as she charges past post drop-off parents and playground aides.
She turns just once more for a glimpse of me still waiting
for her to arrive at the door, now closed, but which, we hope,
her teacher will open when she gets there.

The doors get farther away as legs lengthen.
Punctuality grows more important and teachers
less forgiving. As she faces each new challenge
my only hope is to be suffered to continue
idling by the curb, catching airborne kisses.

haunted

a steel and concrete skeleton
rises in the nearby field
wearing a partial shroud
of weathered plastic sheeting
ripped and torn but shielding still
the men whose silhouettes
I see pacing the hollow spaces
where one day desks, chairs,
cubicles, water coolers, bathrooms,
and coffee makers, will reside,
haunted by dead-eyed office workers
eking out a living in eight hour
increments, tapping out emails,
answering phone calls, marking up
copy and products, turning bricks
to gold, while today's dark figures
turn another weed-filled empty lot
that once grew grain or housed cattle,
into another steel-boned skeleton