Hey! I like you,
and Remember! that time I
Spilled! juice on your
pants?
(feet planted like sugarcane stalks)
(dirty and slow, soles mingling with dust)
(Draaaaag, kick)
(Draaaaag, kick)
(Push off, lunar landing style)
the sky is
Pink!
I’ll race you,
And!
if I could,
Fly!
today, these arms would
Reach!
out over
Your!
tall power lines.
and Hey!
I liiiike you
(Grindddd.)
It was the dirty ones
with no love in their hearts
that took the seat and his chain
and threw them to the cold of the sky
to drape, in death, over cold metal bars
a facsimile of a sham of a swing.
So, I suppose, I should just say that you need to read this poem with the sound of a swing in your mind. The creak of the swing back and forth. Slooooowly eee, ee. Dooooo, do doo dum. Got it? Go read the poem again.
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