Low Arc

I took the long way to avoid the man

who wants to talk about his lawn-care plan.

The park was a mess of rubber and rust,

settling down in the evening dust.

The swings were moving on their own

because the wind has no place else to go.

The S-hooks screeched on the hollow pipe,

a metal sound that isn't quite right.

The chains are thin and the seats are cold.

It’s a lonely thing, watching a playground get old.