Pivot Point

The apartment is a lung that cannot breathe,

so I take the dog where the shadows seethe.

The highway hums a low and steady note

that feels like a finger pressed against my throat.

The swings are moving in a ghost’s own time,

a rhythmic, metal, and unhurried chime.

I reach out and grab the galvanized chain,

slick with the grease of the midday rain.

The slide is a tongue of silver and cold,

telling a story that’s already been told.

I stand in the woodchips, heavy and still,

watching the clock turn against my will.