a giant rocking chair leaning crazily in the wind
because my father forgot to fill in the dirt in the holes
around the not-so-sturdy legs
stuck in the ground on my seventh birthday.
but i liked how it tilted when i lay on the beams,
proud of my father�s handiwork
and pleased with the possibilities extending far beyond
my friends� sleek metal swings.
with sheets tied over the tops and sides and everywhere
it was a fortress and a treehouse and an igloo in summer
or just some splintery refuge in the corner of the yard.
dad didn�t think of the frayed black ropes
chafing my small hands, but i held on tight;
if i swung high enough i could see over the rooftop
into the trees.
the monkeybars are gone, rotted away by time and sun and salt air,
the first one broken as i hung from my knees,
and the seat long since dropped out of the fragile swing.
still i climb up sometimes, and i miss the magic in the grass
and i think or smoke or sit in summer sun
in the sanctuary under the honeysuckle
because i�m proud of my father�s handiwork
and i like how it tilts when i lie on the beams.
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