Empty Swings, Late Wind

The park at two AM, a ghost-lit place,

where laughter should have been, there's just the trace

of wind across the pavement, damp and bare.

A single street lamp, buzzing, lights the air.

The red swing, plastic, hung from rusted chain,

rocked back and forth, then back, through phantom rain.

No child to pump its arc, no small shoe scrape,

just a slow, sad sigh, escaping from its shape.

And I drove past, the engine soft and deep,

a world of sleeping children, fast asleep.

But something in that empty, swaying chair

left a chill breath hanging in the quiet air.