At weekday’s start, when the glaze on

the grass blades leaves, Mrs. Carol emerges

from the plywood lined rows to care for her carrots.

A yellow bus speeds through

the broken street lamp glistens for its first from the sun’s rays,

the AM track  rumbles overhead,

and a car bumps over the pot-holes.

I stare at the entrance to the Commodore’s school,

the principal glancing a glare at me

as John Rodgers did on his 1812 ships

looking for the fire-cracker makers,

the troubled bunch

And when the gangsters come

We all run from the fire-crackers,

the flashing lights, and the loud noises

with excitement and fear

The commodore then locks the gates,

calling to the guardians who rumble across town

while Mrs. Carol plucks her carrots.