she pedals towards me
on her bike of pink & purple
with her eyes dancing between
sheets of sunlight & her fringe
she is seven, maybe eight.

she slows her feet down & stares at me
i look up from my novel to return the favour
she stops & says, "i like your necklace"
& makes a dash for the skyline
so i don't have time
to react.

& i remember what it was like
to be little but wanting to be bigger
so i could buy rings & necklaces, be tall & pretty,
& drink sophisticated cups of coffee.

what good are these things?
i'd rather be seven, maybe eight.