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On A SwingTwenty-three years old.
          Sitting alone on a swing.
                    Strangers and children don't count.
                              I don't know them.
                                        I somehow made him angry again.
                                                            I don't quite know how.
                                                  Doesn't matter really.
                                        Swinging.
                              My feet before my face.
                    The leaves before my feet.
          The sky before the leaves.
Up and down, back and forth
          With every swing I'm closer to the leaves
                    Sunlight filters through them.
                              Have to pump just right to get higher.
                                        Up, up, up.
                                                  Can I go up forever?
                                                            No. I'll fall off.
                
On A Swing9 years ago in Free Verse More Like This