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The Yawn Between Hours

The plaza holds its breath.

A wind gathers,

but only enough to lift

the corners of yesterday’s paper.

I walk the edge —

stone to shadow,

shadow to stone —

smiling the smile

I made a couple of hours ago,

still warm in its pocket.

Visitors pose for a photograph

they will put off

for another hour,

or another day.

The fountain repeats itself,

water folding into water,

circles without departure.

Somewhere,

a sundial leans into the wrong hour,

its bronze hand

always too late.

The yawn arrives without warning,

a soft collapse of the face,

a brief surrender to the weight

of the afternoon.

And yet,

in the far corner,

a child’s shout

breaks the air —

a spark that rises,

then falls back

into the slow turning

of the plaza’s breath.

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