名人诗歌：A Month of Sundays
A Month of Sundays
Kathleen Hellen
In the exaggerated light of perigee I pitter-patter to the bus stop in my flip-flops. The minute lengthening like a fenced-in shadow on a lit-up field ... the diamond sparkling, the trees like silent sentries I can count on when a truck comes up, its headlights ducking between houses with their lights on, lighting up the boys in gangs of three who toss the football, a joke or two. I speak their language with a nod up, the way it ought to be, never down, never chin tucked under.
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