The Hollow

The sky has gone the color of a fresh, deep bruise,

and the wood chips are damp under the slide.

There’s nothing left in the park for me to use,

nowhere for a grown man to effectively hide.

The rubber seats sway on their long, rusty chains,

groaning a song that I haven't heard in years.

They move in the wind like the ghosts of old pains,

or the way a heavy thought finally clears.

There are divots in the dirt where the heels used to strike,

deep little trenches worn into the ground.

I don't remember when I stopped feeling like

I could launch myself up and never be found.