Malia stands on top
of one of the stones.
She’s holding a stick
like a microphone,
and she’s wearing her pink Jem wig.
She’s singing with all heart,
because on another Sitting Stone
is Lola.
Her body sways back and forth,
her hands full of tissues,
a private concert just for her.
I wait until the song fades
and clap from the path.