Thursday noon,
 

tintinnabulations of wind chimes twinkles;
a whirlwind of summer heat gushes in.
 
 
 
 
 

'Skateboard.' A sigh, 'again?'
Exasperation drips,

he remains silent, gliding in.

Muted clankings,
she passes him a bag.

'Get a bicycle, or better, a bike, Rive.'
 
 
 
 

'Next time, maybe.'
His usual shrug.
 
 
 
 
 

Picking up the weighted bags,
he swerves a smooth curve.

The board zips,
he's back under the summer heat.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

'Rive, there's mor—great, he's gone.'