Leopards

There are two boys in the neighbourhood, twelve or so, so hip they can hardly walk. Brothers? Friends? I always see them together. The neighbours have a wrought-iron garden bench outside their front door. I've never seen anyone sit in it, but today the boys are in it. Each is slouched over an arm. They are leopards at noon, looking hot enough to pant, dully watching the world go by. Which it doesn't, much: it's hot, sticky, pressed still. It must be very hot indeed to put those two in that bench: hot enough to overcome all that cool.