The yellowed pitch is marked,
bright wheals of light and shade
streak its expanse to the boundary wall.
It is empty now except for this small person running
anxiety rising in the pitch of her cry
arms outstretched;
a body blotched in sweat and tears.
The man on the bench is reading
she shows him the angry marks
offering an upturned face that weeps and shines,
but he is not available to her.
With a sigh he slaps down the paper,
takes a tissue and rubs the marks.
It does not console.
She bends in upon herself
fingering the wound, still sobbing.
This one will be hers for life.