The Pendulum

The woodchips are frozen in craters and peaks

beneath the black rubber of the empty seat.

The S-hook is rusted and groans as it squeaks,

a rhythm that echoes the cold on the street.

A single blue glove has been left in the grit,

its fingers curled tight like a small, lonely hand.

There isn't a child here to make use of it,

or walk through the shadows that stretch on the sand.

The metal is biting the chain like a jaw,

swinging in arcs that the wind didn't plan.

I wait for the ice in my marrow to thaw,

and get out of the park while I still feel I can.