I could write a poem that no one could tell was for you,
Or for anyone.
It would be about the rickety tire swing,
carelessly strewn atop the cold woodchip ­covered dirt.
And the stained plastic slide,
the red tint remaining from your late-night stumble.
Slurred speech from four missing wisdom teeth,
your tongue tracing canyons
in your Vicodin-numbed gums.
A buzzing mosquito around a bare leg
stuck outside,
pleading to be let in.
It would be about the rusted swing,
the sharp smell of iron stinging the inside of our nostrils,
and the crooked seesaw,
unwilling to budge from its place.