Some kids speak a secret language,

I hear them talk softly to one another,

It echos out of the girls bathroom and as I enter it stops, abruptly,

And I find two pairs of dark eyes directed at the intruder, at me.

I lower my eyes, ashamed at having interrupted their conversation,

Interrupted the steady flow of that secret tongue,

That is harsh and yet sweet at the same time,

That has a certain lull, a rhythm, a beat.

I ask them what they are saying,

It's a secret, they say and laugh, sharing their inside joke,

But refusing to include me, to initiate me into their enlightenment.

They keep their secret from me until I leave,

And it burbles forth again with more laughter,

So I wait, desperate to understand,

Longing to speak the rapidfire syllables,

That come so foreignly but so gently to my ear.

The only word I catch in my straining ears:

Esperando.