The Playground

22 06 2008

It is the end of a forever season.
Here is the merry-go-round;
when I turn it, it resists,
makes a tortured, grating sound.
We are gone, and there is only silence.
A cold wind
blows the frayed end
of a tether-ball cord
toward the gate as if to say,

it’s time for you to go.

 

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