The sated faces,
the pretty faces,
weary from long walks through my city’s splendor.
They came in couples,
In rowdy packs,
They hold babies by small chubby hands.
Somewhere, a righteous woman shouts through a bullhorn;
Her protest is muffled
By the stillness
Of the day.
Eager, curious, cranky and fractious.
It is only noon;
Brittle little dramas are yet to be staged.
They come as an invasion, much too far
From the nearest Starbucks.