swingset

old wood still sways outside my bedroom door

a giant rocking chair leaning crazily in the wind

because my father forgot to fill in the dirt in the holes

around the not-so-sturdy legs

stuck in the ground on my seventh birthday.

but i liked how it tilted when i lay on the beams,

proud of my father’s handiwork

and pleased with the possibilities extending far beyond

my friends’ sleek metal swings.

with sheets tied over the tops and sides and everywhere

it was a fortress and a treehouse and an igloo in summer

or just some splintery refuge in the corner of the yard.

dad didn’t think of the frayed black ropes

chafing my small hands, but i held on tight;

if i swung high enough i could see over the rooftop

into the trees.

the monkeybars are gone, rotted away by time and sun and salt air,

the first one broken as i hung from my knees,

and the seat long since dropped out of the fragile swing.

still i climb up sometimes, and i miss the magic in the grass

and i think or smoke or sit in summer sun

in the sanctuary under the honeysuckle

because i’m proud of my father’s handiwork

and i like how it tilts when i lie on the beams.