The girl is eight or nine—gladly plump,
maybe from daily ice cream cones or snacks
balled neatly in a crevice of her blue backpack;
her pleated skirt flounces to her little jumps.
The father grips her hand like that strung balloon
he won with darts at the greasy county fair;
he loved its gentle tug, he loves her hair—
dancing with static, gleaming with the moon.
And then there’s the chihuahua, a curled and mottled
crescent shelved on her chubby arm,
snug as a shooter marble pinned by a sticky thumb.
The dog glides over the sidewalk like clouded
skies running after a stray balloon, like that one crumb
of crusty bread the ant army carries home.
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