Empty Chains

The streetlamp hums, a lonely eye,

over the swings, so cold and bare.

They sway a little, in the sigh

of wind, just moving, in the empty air.

No shouts, no scraped-knee cries tonight,

just dark slides, slick with dew.

The seesaw still, without its weight,

a silent promise, nothing new.

I drove past, after too many drinks,

the metal chains, a faint, sad ring.

And thought of joy, the way it shrinks.

That empty playground, sorrowing.