Arc

The streetlights give a buzzing hum,

making my thumb feel thick and numb.

The schoolyard gate is left ajar,

under the stare of a single star.

The rubber seats swing in the draft,

losing the ghost of the kids who laughed.

The yellow paint flakes off the chain,

like dead skin washed by the autumn rain.

They hang there heavy in the night,

cutting the air in the yellow light.