While my children sleep,
almost midnight and a ball thumps the pavement.
Young children, lots, laugh, loudly,
echoing off of the high cement walls of back gardens.
A dog yaps
and teenagers lean lazily in the dark, puffing smoke,
their car radio, full of tin and bass, thuds through open doors.
While my three children sleep.
In the morning,
the scent of coffee rises from the stove top and
a ball thumps the chevron patterned parquet.
Young children, only three, laugh, loudly,
echoing off the pink plaster ceilings soaring above their heads.
The yet to be tuned piano plinks and plunks, and plunks again
straining slightly to an almost recognizable hot cross buns
while water fills buckets in preparation for the day.
All while Georgia sleeps.