Tiny Footsteps

The streets busy, like a preschool playground.

Tiny footsteps. Perambulation.

People pack together, like hot sardines in a can.

Senses roused.

Muffled expression, and then- absence.

Hands touching hands,

Tiny fingers curling without reservation.

A calloused hand gives the come on.

As an embryo trumps up.

The house no longer void,

Curtains trim every window.

Recollection soon becomes forgetfulness.

The now is inflated, Lang syne irrelevant.

Hands embracing hands.

The smooth sound of footsteps.

As we walk.

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Tags: hot sardines, poem, poems, poetry, poetry writing, poets corner, preschool playground, Tiny fingers, Tiny footsteps, writing