by Walter Rhead
The boy stopped breathing half past noon, his leg Bone bleaching in the sun and dripping life Onto the sun-bleached road. Not quite enough Heads rimmed about to block out all the mid- Day light, which puddled on his sunken eyes, And pooled around his mouth. That whole noon hour The air stood still among the rows of cars Now idling in the road, vacated by A silent mass of passersby, who wave Like corn in wind; but there's no wind, nor is There breath to spare among the pale faces Gathered there to gaze at the shallow grave Dug by the boy's stopped breath—which stopped the hum Of transport, and the air and noonday sun.
