Playground

I haven’t forgotten what we were like then,
when I couldn’t see over the kitchen table
and plastic sliding boards burned my legs.
We never thought about the discomfort, it happened
and off we ran with our make-believe soldiers.

It was instinct to take your hands and
rub chalk on the asphalt together,
laying on the rocky forgeries
of a Dr. Seuss book and
squinting at the animals in the clouds.

Our school has long since been derelict.
The parking lot is lone and level now,
eroded to graphite hues.
At some point I learned to hesitate
and grew taller than my mother.

Samuel Swauger is an author and poet from Baltimore, Maryland. His work appears in magazines such as Wordgathering, Bandit Fiction, and Front Porch Review. His website is samuelswauger.com and his Twitter is @samuelswauger.