small floating things on a glimmer of sun between tall buildings
long tangled hair moved by dusty city wind
it’s always a quiet summer day
alone on the playground
in the memory
black mary janes, green dress, knobby knees
pushing an empty swing
nothing happening
but waiting
just in case there’s something
other than lost dogs and cigarette stubs
rusty chains, piled rubble
writing in dirt with a stick
childhood treasures
dappled snapshot, yellowed taste
smell of pie for someone else’s birthday
so aware of every breath
counting each step
swinging but careful not to let go
just in case someone’s watching
afraid to test beyond the fence
when all perfect remains within
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Andira Dodge lives in rural Pennsylvania, where rolling hills and laughing children fill her days and feed her imagination, which she then pours into her writing. She also has a bit of a problem with run-on sentences.