Slide Mouth

The swing creaks—a slow, hollow knock

like a door left open to nothing.

Chains rattle soft, a crooked tune,

breath caught in the night’s throat.

The slide yawns wide, black and empty,

a mouth that waits but never speaks.

Cracked asphalt spreads like dried mud,

shadows pooling in the creases,

whispering things I don’t know.

I watch a stray leaf curl,

touched by streetlamp flicker,

catching fire for a second

then folding into the dark.

Nothing moves but the restless air,

and I’m just a stranger passing by,

leaving the silence to swing again,

its creak a slow pulse in the cold.