The Long Road Home

Hooded, belted in, and considerably calmer than you would be.

Twenty feet above the water, on straps, in front of everybody.

Aluminium, stacked, and already scratched — which is the whole point of them.

The stick already up, the ball still on the ground, the light nearly gone.

Lifted, lit from below, and parked where a fountain should be.

Palms, lamplight, and several hundred people who all know each other.

Dripped across a newspaper, in a red that has not quite finished running.

A torn note on navy, and one man refusing to look away.

Everything passes, says the writing. The child is unconvinced.