Adulthood?

Greyish slate clouds
Blanket the half-globe
Of my surroundings.
Five 'o clock...rush hour,
But I'm seated serenely,
Legs folded in the passenger seat
Of a waiting car.
Connected to only the silence,
I'm content to simply observe.

Metal machines,
Much like the one I wait in
Are the only occupants
That sit, squashed
With their steely sneers,
From the corner of an eye
A commodity of red stumbles in
Between the iron sandwiches.
He struggles slightly
To climb over the curb
A brief pause...
Tottering into the middle of the street,
He surveys the scene
With ignorant eyes.

Where is his keeper?
Glances to the left and right
Yield no matching bright figure.
But wait! A lone clout
Separates itself from the embracing abyss.
Young, Afraid, with the same eyes
As her son, who instinctivly
Hopps back to the safety(?)
Of his mother.

Her hair is done in
Childish poney tails and twists
Only a few years older than myself.
I continue my observation.
Her hand stubbornly shakes
One source of comfort, addiction.
Discarding bits of plastic and cardboard
On the ground below--
A mirror image of its
Skyward sibling.
Finally a thin cylinder slides out.
A brief display of colored brilliance
Which fades to puffs
Of seemingly, bits of cloud.
A symbol of adulthood?
Instead of the resolute stance
Expected of one so grevious,
She teeters across the parking curbs--
A high wire artist?
Or the dreams of not-so-long ago?