No music except the sounds of giggles from children
As they pass by my window, dozens of them.
Fashionable are they dressed in ignorance
What was their hurry?
They parade by thick and over mature
In body only
Wearing mid-riffs, exposing proudly their folly
In the form of stretch marks
I become confused
Who is the child?
Who is the mother?
I cannot speak it
Because of my sadness
The shame they should feel
But they are comfortable
Their grandmothers not 38 themselves
Their fathers' unknown or playing basketball
So young, so beret of wisdom
Wisdom reserved for maturity
Maturity they may never reach
And so they march
Ignorantly, proudly by my window
Pushing a baby
While being a baby themselves