Playground
by Will Shade
The Keds-stubbed grass, toy trucks without wheels,
and Band-aids threaded in the sand…
Most parenting is vigilance.
Seconds ahead of its own sound,
a passenger jet spears the heights
not far above the treetops,
drowning the traffic and playground cries
till the action stops
and children stand transfixed.
Some learn the word early, some late,
But all acknowledge its import.
The mommies chat real estate.
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Lovely imagery, there can be no doubt of this setting. I like the playfulness threaded with something more sober.
Oh, how I hate that sound. I always hold my breath until it passes, sure it will crash into my house. Children do love it though.
I like the stanza leap of:
Seconds ahead of its own sound,
a passenger jet spears the heights
(still wrestling with the mystery of "the word.")
Dear Mr. Shade, this poem has some very biting irony , and surely will offend all those mummies in my glorious suburban neighborhood whose primary concern, aside from their children and their weight, is the market value of their homes. They seem impervious to anything I have to say. Good going. George L. Chieffet
Well, this is great indeed. How did I miss it, the first time around. Anyway, glad to have read it.
Well, this is great indeed. How did I miss it, the first time around. Anyway, glad to have read it.