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    poetry


    dots Submission Name: Waiting in the Parkdots
    --------------------------------------------------------





    Author: Ettenna Izus
    Elite Ratio:    5.38 - 11/9/14
    Words: 351
    Class/Type: Poetry/Nostalgia
    Total Views: 676
    Average Vote:    No vote yet.
    Bytes: 2279



    Description:
       


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    dotsWaiting in the Parkdots
    -------------------------------------------


    When we could no longer stand
    fetching another wayward baseball
    tossed over our neighbor's fence
    and we tired of the hum of the billions of air conditioners
    cooling the cave-like structures
    that houses are to children at noon
    with curtains drawn and each room gloomy,

    On summer days so hot that the smooth top
    of my dark hair could burn anyone who touched it
    and the reflections of the shiny hubcaps
    on expensive cars that joy rode through the neighborhood
    could blind,

    We would drag our rusty wagon
    with unleveled wheels that banged on the pavement
    and made a horrible racket of sand toys rattling
    that echoed up and down the deserted lane
    to the park and back
    before the endless globe of the sky
    burst into color like the bruises and scrapes
    our long day entailed, but which we wouldn't find
    until morning.

    We used to take off our shoes
    and peel back our sweaty little socks
    then wade in the sand, warm on top
    cool in the bottom,
    soothingly grainy, soft, moist.
    Or we would sit on the grayed wooden frame
    and squeeze it in our tiny little hands.

    We took turns swinging.
    I would lean back so my hair touched the ground
    and didn't worry that it would become littered with woodchips
    I only imagined I swung so high,
    pretended it wasn't my seven year old brother
    but Daddy who was pushing me.

    It was then that we'd say how much we missed him
    but one of us always asked the others to stop
    and we did, so that they would quit crying.
    We would become silent then
    as the drones of suburbia pressed back into our consciousnesses
    and I would suggest we walked home.

    The trees we'd climbed
    and coaxed each other back out of
    would become depthless black
    fractured edges against the horizon.
    They would frame the white sided rows
    of identical houses
    like a melancholy lace.

    Beautiful black and tangerine
    and no one to help me take a picture of it.





    Submitted on 2008-03-06 20:10:25     Terms of Service / Copyright Rules
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