Morning rides

A pink hat with white dots.

A black cap shading the eyes.

A bare head under the sun.

Another head with a fancy flower.

 

Mums riding fast

to reach the schools on time.

Sometimes it’s the dads,

or occassionally a grandpa with a frown.

 

Scooters, scooters, scooters.

Zipping, zapping, zooming.

With their precious packages

standing tall in front of the seat.

 

Dreaming of their day in school

or dreading the lunch they’ll have to eat

or simply hoping and praying

their teachers would keep their cool.

 

Speeding lorries, faster bikes,

angry drivers tooting horns.

Slow down, pipe down.

Have a thought.

 

For these little flowers,

Smiling, laughing, waving,

blooming on your way.

Every morning, everyday.

 

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Me…

I look in the mirror.

I study my face.

I have my mother’s nose.

My mother’s jaw

My father’s ears.

His sister’s lips.

His father’s build.

His aunt’s complexion.

My grandmother’s gait.

My mother’s phobias.

My mother’s feet.

My grandfather’s attitude.

What does all this make me?

A cosmic leftover?