Playground In The Rain

By Judson Mitcham
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The rain falls hard, straight as chains
The worn, still swing seats hang on,
and the slide flares darkly, its blade
clattering, as though each sound it has known
could return - each loose, ticking shoestring,
every open coat rapping metal buttons,
a buckle or a zipper. In the hollows
by the seasaw, underneath the swings, in the bare
circle at the jungle gym, puddles form.
The horses have lost their eyes to the weather,
waiting in a perfect line. Their guts
give a thick, dark coil to the mud.

I think of how things go wrong,
how Janice Scott suddenly dropped limp
through a tangle of bars, how the seasaw
caught Leon Dillard under the chin,
shattered his jaw, broke teeth. And I think
of a boy we had cruelly called Baby Shoes because
he was so small for the first grade,
who meandered in the path of a swing, as it arced
backwards as far as it could, then rode
the weight of a large child down to his temple.
I recall how the blood made beads in the dirt,
the children gathered as quietly as clouds,
and the playground grew this still.
cccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccccI recall
how differently everything gleamed, as in rain,
the paths home, curves in the bars, those shoes.