Kitty Kramer
There’s Kitty Kramer, racing double-quick
on that red Schwinn of hers, a baseball card
clacking in the spokes. She lives next-door
in an ancient double-block of ghetto brick
with thirteen double cousins whose back yard
is way too tame for Kitty anymore.
You won’t catch Kitty on the hopscotch squares
or jumping rope. She’s game for double dares.
Last spring it was those roller skates, but soon
she’ll drive her Daddy’s tail-finned Pontiac.
As Kitty flies this summer afternoon,
I see a girl who jams the luggage rack,
indifferent to the way the Full Crow Moon
trails a bus that won’t be doubling back.
