The Beat at the Playground

Do you still live the beat? For me the beat goes on.

Tubeless circles of fun and cheering people,
Truck-chairs swinging, turning—
Happy saplings hang from iron rings,
Giggling, laughing out loud.
From the hourglass of unawareness we gaze
To see them stand straight, walking away,
Ending moments. Moments before,
Green spaghetti-steel—soft and twisting—
Showed strands of bodies bending,
Upside down, silhouettes dangling.
Yellow slides tried—no go. No water means
Tiptoeing away with happy goodbyes,
Just after the older ones left with strangers,
Headed toward the watering hole
To find the holes they want to water.
Then the invisible disgust appeared:
To beg, to insult, to scout you,
Saying with disrespectful respect, "No problem, it's OK,"
When met with his own self, mirrored by his might.
But the love of this warm autumn night,
Spawning soft breezes, is the sweetness
Of your gentle hand—searching, finding—
Leading me to the grounds, escaping,
Saying little but laughing at a dizzy girl
Sitting with limp, dangling, motionless happiness.