Wet Swings

The streetlights halo, dim and far.

I walk until I find this scar

of childhood, now deserted, stark.

Just swingsets swinging in the dark.

A metal chain, a seat so cold,

reflects a story never told.

It moves, a slight, unbidden sway,

as if a ghost just left to play.

The slides are slick, with evening dew.

No laughter here, no childish hue.

Just concrete cracks and empty space,

a silent, still, forgotten place.

I kick the sand, a futile plea.

For someone else to be with me.