Abandoned park swing set
My pen is running dry, but if I work wisely
and put my words in the proper order,
and don’t include what we have said to each other,
it probably still has one poem left in it.
I can write a play, one act is all I’ve got in me,
and we can rehearse our lines as they should have been,
or change our old roles into new characters
by changing the parts that led us astray.
We can sit down at kitchen table,
with poker chips and a bottle of wine,
tip our hands a little, and this time begin with
the cards that we’ve yet to show each other.
With a half-empty book of stamps
and a poorly folded glove box Rand McNally,
I can cross the county and fill your mailbox
with post cards from all the places we’d circled on the map.
Or I can walk down a winding road with a flashlight,
a flask, and a pocket full of crumbled love notes,
alone in the heart of the autumn Maryland midnight
searching the abandoned park swing set for first date clues
and reasons why we failed to get this right.