PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

It’s a blistering cold night

It’s late

I spend the last hours of the day on a swing

At a park

The wind is cold

The paint on the bench is peeling

And a dime on the gravel is shining in the traffic lights



The park has long sense been cleared of the younger years

They have long sense been tucked into their beds

And are dreaming of the wonder of the park

The wind is cold

The paint is peeling

And the dime on the gravel is slowly losing its shine



There are some hoodlums smoking on a picnic table

Under the aluminum awning

And a few free spirited teenagers are reliving their youth

Climbing large animal monuments and spinning on a merry-go-round

The wind is cold

The paint is peeling

And the dime has just been kicked an inch by a crazy reckless teenager



I am in the background, swinging slowly on a secluded swing

I watch the hoodlums and wonder how I got smart enough to never be one

I watch the miss-understood teens trying to be untainted and innocent

And I wonder how they can be my friends who I am so close to

But feel so far away from them

The wind is cold

The paint is peeling

And the dime has been left alone



How did I become the thinker?

How did they so quickly lose my attention?

The animal monuments are far too large and menacing this late at night

The streetlights help them to create dark shadows

Shadows are not what this dark of night needs

The wind is cold

The paint is peeling

And the dime is lost in a shadow



The lights in the trees are swaying in the cool cool breeze

The air is becoming frigid

The lights sway slowly

Creating more shadows

I am here with friends

But I am alone

The wind is cold

The paint is peeling

And the dime’s shiny silver finish is being scuffed away



I stepped on the dime on the way to the swings

I can see it shining in the streetlights again

It probably fell out of a four year old’s pocket

She was probably a little girl with blond ringlets

Skipping to a large brightly colored elephant

She probably didn’t even realize she dropped it

The wind is cold

The paint is peeling

And the dime is lost



It was probably that little girl’s weekly allowance

And it’s gone now

It’s been left, like me

It’s cold and scuffed

All alone

The wind is cold

The paint is peeling

And the dime has no piggy bank to call home



The hoodlums are leaving while sparking more fire

My friends have moved on to a bridge and a kangaroo

And I am alone

The wind is cold

The paint is peeling

But somewhere a little blond 4 year old is crying for a dime she lost in the excitement of a park