Idling near a basement window
a boy passes on the sidewalk
riding his skateboard with such flip pizzazz.

He turns and sees me in my car
my fourteen-year-old daughter next to me
and we move beyond the block
under a scowling winter sky.

I imagine him looking at me, I am hardly there
occupying the space reserved for moms or whatever.

I imagine the other side of the basement window
watching his tennis shoes zipping by, eye-level.

A forgotten Mason jar filled with cobwebs.