Woodchips

By
Sitting in the Altima, Good talk happens in cars.
Discussing the past events that make us most mad.
Like people turning. I was turning. In the park
On the swing. He’s on the phone. We wander.
Our thoughts wander. Around what we’ve been through.

His friends are mine now. But not his enemies.
We contradict each other in that sense. But that park,
With the swings, contradicts no one. Memories of
everyone happened here. On those woodchips.
Stacked on top of on another. Mixed together
So I can’t tell them apart.

Like with our boys. The boys of the moment.
Leaving like school years. Just the must
Of their cologne is left. This is where everyone
Grew up. We all know this best.





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