My daughters are both playing
under the sun this morning,
in and out of the shade
on primary-colored swings
and slides and spiral ladders,
and they’re being just as good
as can be at tagging others.

They’re among the most evasive
(when they’re not It) and clever 
enough (when they are)
to touch the ones they’re after.
I’m proud watching over them
from my safe place on the bench.

A man sits next to me.
His long gray hair hangs down
the back of his wrinkled coat.
He’s wearing a yachting cap,
thick glasses, a woman’s skirt,
sneakers with open toes,
and blue-and-white batting gloves.

He’s holding much of his life
ready to eat or wear
in a plastic shopping bag.
He leans my way and offers
the part of it that’s French fries 
and tells me I’d better help
myself or be sorry later.

And now two women are guiding
three disadvantaged children
out of a van. A girl,
maybe eleven, who scuttles
to a sandbox and sits down,
laughing. A younger boy
who knows how to run and clamber
up onto a platform
and straddle a tunnel slide.
A teenage Latina, her arms
akimbo who smiles around
at the wide world of sports.
All three are as pale as if trained
to grow up in the dark.

The girl in the sand is squealing,
lifting, and letting fly
whatever these handfuls are.
The boy in the air
eyes shut in ecstasy,
is pounding his blue drum.
The Latina is strutting around
on the grass like a mistress
of ceremonies, waving
as if to coax applause
or to congratulate
herself for winning something
by shaking most of the hands
of most of the babysitters
within reach, including mine
and the two in batting gloves
beside me, that go on shaking
hers over and over
and won’t let go till she sees
he’s as proud of her as a father.