Thread: The Park No Mother Will Bring Her Child To

Hell's portal looks like a cheap motel,
a Soviet shell of cracked concrete
plopped right where some burnt out architect
with bloodshot eyes decided to dump the load.

Residents play out their routines
on perpetual cigarette breaks,
stopping like clockwork to suck a last sour gasp
of filter before tending to a ninth
or tenth attempt at suicide,
maybe smoking out a demon.

They stake out spots in the sun
like individual dogs other feral packs
rejected as sick on collective principle.

Sprawled on a perimeter of benches,
staring at swing sets and jungle gyms
that sway and rattle with the play of ghosts,
sometimes they chat with the oldest of friends
(last left among the wreckage),
too alone to notice that the grass is always kept
and the playground's good as new.

Edgewise, an excellent poem. I thought at first that you were writing a bout a literal prison and it's inmates on break. But reading further on I thought of you speaking of two other possible prisons. A park were derilicts and/or drug addicts occupy benches. (A very familiar site to me when walking through Washington Square Park when living in Manhattan.) Then the other thought. When you speak of suicide I think of patients on their smoking break outside a mental hospital.

Three sound possibilities all accomplished in just one poem. And since poetry is up for interpretation reading it serveral times, gathering different view points was a "mind delight"

Brilliant!

or tenth attempt at suicide,
maybe smoking out a demon

A pure joy to read. Laurie

I vote for mental hospital. I saw this so clearly, Edge. Utterly excellent. Only nit is jungle jims, unless the name is of importance, it should be gyms. You've captured this like a fisherman with a blessed net. Kudos.

Enjoyed the read Edge. I saw it as drug addicts in a public park. Enjoyed your imagery.

Thanks all. Edited, CD.

The park is across from a half-way house.