| It was a slow day at the neighborhood playground,
Slow and dull and noisy
late afternoon, just before dinner,
half an hour to kill
before taking the kids home,
bored
to old to climb the slides
not feeling like swinging
nothing to do but to wait out the sentence
It was a slow day at the neighborhood playground.
Movement on the edge of vision
next to the fountain
a flash of white mixed in with some gold
they were both young
tall, blond and beautiful,
the kind to make the mouth go dry
the mind get kind of soggy
tiny little shirts
with mountains underneath
unclimbable
unattainable
inaccessible
But the mind knows no borders
and to dream is not to sin
in the three minutes it took them
to cross the ground from entrance to exit
the movement
the laughter
the swagger
where recorded in the fantasy compartment
securely locked away
as they walked by the slides
laughing
passed by the swings
swaying
they left their mark
in the sandbox of his mind
no more and then again no less
They realize
somehow feel the gaze
half turn
half smile
half blush
attention returned
relativity
then the angle changes
to hips
then back
and finally blond blowing in the wind
fading into the afternoon sun
around the corner behind the sand box
where the kids are still playing
gone
It was a slow day at the neighborhood playground.
|
