The mercury vapor lamp hums a low sick note

The mercury vapor lamp hums a low, sick note.

The slide is a tongue of cold, galvanized steel

licking the dark. I can feel the grit of the chips

under my boots, shifting like teeth.

The swing moves once, a heavy, rubber groan

as the wind catches the chains and lets go.

There is a red mitten half-sunk in the dirt,

swollen with water, heavy as a drowned hand.

I shouldn't be here. The chain-link is a grid

cutting the world into small, sharp squares.

The silence isn't empty; it's waiting for me

to make a sound I can't take back.