A tug, move quick, no slack,
Then pay out the line,
Retrieve, let it run, cord taut,
At which end no bait,
No pike, but a big, striped
Kite. Now the wait

Around the green city pond
The kite masters sit
Comfortably, chatting, comparing
Creatures, equipment. The business of men.
Eyes are drawn to the end
Of stories, of white lines,
To blots in the sky,
Washed by the wind.
Diminished with patience.
The reels spin. Deltas fly
In formation, kite constellation,
Brought down by fading lights.

Doraemon descends with a dog that runs
One last round, a new star, a new leash
Is fitted, flashing lights on its tail,
On its frame. Eye attractors.
Limbs stir; line shortens, kites grow and turn
To plastic rolls in paper bags.
The pond is left to night-time strollers.