Light leaks past poplar lattice,
dappling the dirt path.
Beyond the trees, children laugh,
swing sets whine, and adults “chat“—
an empty talk plagued with platitudes
and overt checks of a luxury watch.
Bird song trickles in
from the high limbs, and
we listen. Really listen.
Not the hmming and ahhing unfolding
between pairs of preening parents
in their facsimile conversations.
We skirt the park’s perimeter,
pacing beneath canopy,
commenting on the absurdity,
the privilege, and stark snobbery
of plotting a multi-
million dollar home this close
to a city
and then designating the
leftover land as a playpen, a green sanctuary
for your silver spoon-fed children
to roam and mistake
their sliver of woods mid-neighborhood
for wilderness.
Click, click, click.
Whifs of charcoal and flame
as a polo-clad dad
starts grilling.
The scent sends us reeling,
consumed, reminiscing.
Then again,
think of how good
a childhood.
Think of a life
without worry.
pm poetry 