by Jennie R. Leishman
From the window of a grey zepplin puttering between skyscrapers, it will look like hundreds of shadowy boats are floating on invisible rivers, but down on the streets you will see black pine boxes strapped to the roofs of station wagons with children in the back seats trying to read each other's palms, giggling as they trace life lines with tiny fingers. Black boxes will also pass by balanced on the heads of pedestrians who keep their hands hidden in pockets, clutching back door keys and old photographs. From beneath the green awning of the drugstore, yo will watch college students on bicycles with caskets scotch-taped to their backs and filled with text books; they will ride with their chins resting on silver handlebars. A troop of Boy Scouts will carry one home for a widow, carry it upside-down like a canoe, through the ghettos. You'll be at the soda fountain asking for a Strawberry Fizz when small boxes float by low on Radio Flyers pulled by children who take turns riding on top. At home some children will be reluctant to leave these boxes in the backs of closets, under beds, waiting. In their backyards, with forks sneaked out of silverware drawers, they will begin to open the ground.
