UP THE STREET

Happy the tree with a swing in it!

A wide arching rope with a disc at the end.

The type at which a young kid takes a flying leap,

grabs with one hand, the other flung out like a wing.

The sort that invites loud shrieks and giggles,

pirate yells, or “bombs away,  or a general “AUUUUGGHHH!”

The grass beneath it no longer exists.

The roots of the tree laid bare.

Mom’s good wicker chair from the front porch

is leaning against the trunk, ready to help the smallest flying monkey,

after grabbing the swing and climbing into the seat,

swing back and forth,  head thrown back, eyes closed,

both hands ’round the rope in a death grip.

Even after Mom hollers, “Time to come in!”

the swing swings free in glee.

It waits this morning for not just the sun,

but the son and the daughter and neighbors,

to finish their breakfast, and brush their teeth,

then really start the day flying.

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