Women with strollers pause languidly
in front of my front windows— panes
like chromatic stained glass, panes
that love light like an invisible oil spill.
The heat slows them. There is never a cry
from the covered strollers. There is never a cry
from them.

Women with strollers stalk the sidewalks
of my one-street neighborhood, elongated
cul-de-sac lined with brick townhouses
and dormer windows and polyester flags
that read ‘Welcome’ in the same font,
patterns that change with the seasons.
Their eyes are marbles, heads lean
to the left, black wheels crunch the concrete.

Women with strollers are quiet, keep
to their kind. There are no words or looks
exchanged, not even to cross the street to continue
their path or when they break ranks
for the evening. There are no friendly
nods to neighbors, no “Nice day, isn’t it?”s,
no smiles at leashed Golden Retrievers
or smirks at middle aged men wearing socks
with their sandals.

Women with strollers circle like sharks, pass
my windows on the hour. Keeping time.
I peeked into a flat stroller once, a perambulator lying flat, designed for infants,
pushed by a woman with airily sculpted hair,
thin and bright. The stroller was empty.
I peek as often as I can. It is always empty.