"It's different after school," She said,
staring at the swing set, rusted chains
hanging onto empty rectangle seats
cooked in the sun, a feast of black leather.
The vacant monkey bars no longer
burned with the touch of small hands.
The wood chips were the scattered chaos
where life had been.
When my mom arrived, I walked past
the shattered crown of a broken bottle and
stared as helicopter seeds skidded over the parking lot.
I turned to my teacher. Her sorrowful face
wallowed in the whispers she'd heard at recess.
Her dress flowed to the pavement,
her pageant hand waving in the wind.

Through the 3rd Eye was supported in its inception by the Grand Rapids Humanities Council and is currently made possible by continued volunteer effort and private support. Copyright 2013.