Wyoming Ave. park

I went to the park today with C and her son. He’s three and says the words he knows and then mumbles the ones he doesn’t and then continues with the words he knows like there was no break in communication. My mom made him a pillow case, too, with space ships on it and he said it was cute and how did she make it. He wonders about the origins of things, wonders how they are made and why they are made. Questions I still find myself asking.

He saved me from dinosaurs and we protected princesses from danger. I like that he thinks of me as an ally, someone to fight next to him and help hisĀ  cause. I don’t much care to be rescued anyway. Who wants to wait around for that?

We were pirates feeding sharks and tigers and elephants from the insides of a plastic jungle gym. Pirate Penguin, Pirate Big, Captain Galante. We were under attack and he fought them off. The city sloshing around us. Tin can trucks barreling down the main drag, ripped trash bags, KFC on the corner – I hear their chickens don’t have beaks. The dairy queen across the street was getting its nails painted red.

After dark the teenagers descend upon the playground. Write “I fucked a cop here.” “706-7658 for good bud” Penises with faces smiling, pubic hair, capes waving in false wind were inked all over the plastic canvas. At some point this little boy will know what this all means. His mom and I horrified at the state of things, the loss of decency.

Children play here.

We let the little boy save us as long as he can.

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2 Responses to Wyoming Ave. park

  1. Please excuse my being so far off topic. THE TRIGGERING TOWN arrived, ordered after your quote, and I feel that I may learn to write all over again; poetry may be less mystifying and Hugo says we get to use the words we love whether they belong or not. This is my version of jumping up and down. Thank you, Rachel.

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