playground parents
young man
showing his tats
skateboarding
all check this out
instead of watching
his kid
too into her fine self
swishing her highlighted hair
blabbing loud into
her fancy phone
doesn't hear
mommy mommy mommy
from the jungle gym
too bothered
tired
worn out
sad
still in work clothes
pushing his/her kid
on the swing
up to the sky
eyes distant
sad
stuck
not hearing
all those chattery
words
answering
yes, honey
that one
though
he got it together
dressed for the boardwalk
in new jersey
fedora
slouchy pants
leather shoes
five kids
under age six
daddy
I have to pee
says number three
he carries her to a tree
pulls down her pants
lifts her up
while watching his other four
climb
scream
jump
while she watches
a stream of pale yellow
splash against the trunk
runs back to the jungle gym
as soon as she is done
man got his eyes
tight on his kids
except number four
who walks over to the tree
squats down
to drag his finger
in the moist dirt
sniffing it
smiling
then walks back to his smiling father
who reaches down
absently
to hold his son's hand
cloudy morning
I watch the man across the street: he hangs
out a woman's underwear, wet on a hanger.
I have never seen the woman whose hips
are wide enough to fill those nylon briefs
nor do I know for sure that she exists
though I suspect she does and that he cooks
her food to fill her mouth, her belly. I'm sure
he fought in wars away from her and now
she fights her own in bed so close to him
her body gray and soft, while her mind goes away
so gently like the water, dirty from
her clothes, the drain accepting of the waste.
He wants to keep her happy with him. She
is happy in her world, which is her own.
So good of you to come, she says and smiles.
Her eyes watch him closely but do not see.
My lovely wife, he says, and brushes crumbs
of toast from her chin. My dear, lovely wife
he says again and leaves the room because
he cannot bear the memories that come today
or that sweetest smile she turns on him
as though she's forgotten she's not twenty
one years old and still in love with him. As though
four children, two still alive, haven't passed
between them, as though her mind was still
dreaming of poetry and baseball games
in summertime. He stands outside and watches
gulls, hoping he can keep what has been lost
beneath the clouds, the gray clouds of memory
that make him wonder what is waiting for him
and if she knows he's there to brush away
the crumbs and hang her underwear outside.
mothers
unpeel you
from the bumpy surfaces
you slam yourself into
stand on the sidelines
with their soft washcloths
ready to wipe away
pebbles and glass shards
hand you small envelopes of cash
more than they would ever spend
on themselves
buy yourself something nice
mothers don't flinch
when you show them the riding boots
that cost what they would have spent
on three weeks of groceries
these are superhero boots, ma
you won't ever have to worry
about me again