After a while, it will happen- swing a lot, drag your feet,
puddles form below swings, but only if you use it a lot.
There’s a photo somewhere of me and the girl next door.
A snapshot from 1969, bundled up babies, a chilly spring.
We’re staring with beady eyes, no smiles, serious faces,
small hands clutching cold chains, no idea of the future.
Flip it over, all the white bordered photographs of the
time,
have names, dates, places, and sometimes little sayings.
Words written in blue ink, a mother’s perfect cursive
writing.
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