No hawkers allowed

Early in the morning,

the sky is slate grey

and the wind scuttles clouds

across the horizon.

On Lake Road

two boys ride skateboards

down the smooth bitumen.

Mrs King, wheeling her shopping trolley,

stops to watch them rattle past,

and I’m not sure

whether her expression

is one of fright or fancy.

When they’re out of sight

she draws a ratchety breath

before walking down the street.

I sit on a park bench

wondering how Saturday

can be so lonely.

Ella lives at number 62.

It has a Colorbond fence,

yellow curtains on each window

and a NO HAWKERS sign

on the front door.

If I knocked,

would Ella’s mum mistake me for

a salesperson?

All I have to offer is myself.

Would she point to the sign

and slam the door in my face

long before I got anywhere near asking

if Ella could come outside and play?