Business friends had found
some old industrial pipe,
discarded in an old downtown
office for some reason,
an industrial-strength
swing set was welded: large,
sturdy virtually indestructible
even for neighborhood boys.
Simple but fit for use: glider,
two swings and a slide.
Its main appeal was the height
of the cross-bar, nearly ten feet
from the ground. Crossing
the swings became the game,
hand over hand crossing the bar,
to reach the other side without
the collie dragging you down
by the cuff of your blue jeans.
The dog rarely lost; you’d have
to try again, the rust stains
becoming more embedded
in your hands.
This poem is submitted as part of the One Word Blog Carnival hosted by Peter Pollock, with the one word prompt being “swings.” To see more posts submitted, please visit Peter's site. The links will be live at 10 p.m. Central time Monday.
Photograph: Abandoned Playtime by Kim Newbery via Public Domain Pictures. Used with permission.
