(for my Vienna)

One carries a roll of wax paper;
the other, good karma in sacks full
of yens Buddha was too busy
to make count. A fallen strip
of apple peel forms the first letter
of a true love’s name; lore claims
he’ll be tall as a chain forged
of gum wrappers found along the way.
The foray to playgrounds past is not far
when you float on confidants.

Swings cannot flyby too high
no matter how hard they’re pushed;
wax paper makes slides slick,
but never quick enough.
They matinee all day; only children,
samsara sisters sired continents apart.
Sukha is better late and worth the wait;
hand in hand, they hold karuna up,
kiss chins golden -- pooh-pooh tufts
of lion’s tooth, like hair, gone gray.