The New Park

I wanted to see the slide where I broke my tooth,

to stand on the ground of my clumsy, loud youth.

But the woodchips are gone, replaced by a floor

of recycled rubber, safe and gray as a chore.

There’s a 'No Trespassing' sign on the chain-link gate,

and the swings are locked up because it’s too late.

The air smells like hot tires and plastic and rain,

and suddenly I can't remember the gain

of coming back here to a place that’s been scrubbed.

My memories feel like a secret that’s been snubbed

by a city that wants every corner made neat,

leaving nowhere for ghosts to drag their tired feet.