Empty Swings

The swings were moving when I came through the park

at dusk, just slightly, just enough

to notice that someone's hands had let go

of the chains, or the wind was doing

something with them, or time was

still moving them forward even though

nobody was pushing anymore.

No children. The sand underneath

was darker than it should be,

damp maybe, or just the way dusk

makes colors look heavier, more tired.

The climbing structure was empty,

no small bodies navigating the angles,

no laughing, no tears, no scraped knees

being inspected and declared acceptable.

Just the metal standing there, waiting

for someone to climb it, and nobody coming.

I stopped to watch the swings for a minute

because something about the way they were

moving made me need to understand it.

The slight arc forward and back, forward and back,

like they were breathing, like they were

keeping some rhythm alive even though

there was no one riding them. The chains

were making a small sound, a creak,

metal doing what metal does when it's

been used a thousand times and is tired

of it but keeps doing it anyway.

The sky was getting darker. The park

was emptying out, the joggers heading

toward the exits, the dog walkers

moving faster, the light going

that particular shade of gray that means

it's time to go inside, lock the doors,

turn on the lamps. But the swings

kept moving. The structure kept standing.

The sand kept waiting for the small footprints

that weren't coming today.

I turned away because I had to,

because the park was closing down

and I needed to be somewhere else,

but I kept hearing the chains,

that small creak, that small sound

of something continuing even though

no one was there to need it anymore,

even though the reason for it

had gone home, had gone to bed,

had forgotten about the swings entirely.