Dust on the Knee

The swing set groaned, a rusted chain,

and two boys fought, again, again.

One pushed, a sneaker caught a heel,

a small collapse, too sharp, too real.

Money fanned out, green on the brown dirt,

a tiny hand reached out to hurt.

I watched him laugh, the one who stood,

a sour taste, misunderstood

for power. The kid on the ground,

his chin wet, making no sound,

just gathering coins. I felt a twist,

a memory I'd long dismissed.

The way I shoved, the whispered threat,

a payment I'd not settled yet.

The park light faded, soft and low,

a sudden shame, a quiet, slow.