3222. ARAMINGO PARK

ARAMINGO PARK

Eating an apple by the old wooden swings,
watching the birds swoop by, I stretched out
my arms to measure the sky, and realized -
just like that - that it was all too big for me.
Biting down hard, I thought of the fruit and
the seeds I was eating, what grew into pulp,
what remained for future growth. Behind me,
almost in a ragged stealth, that same old river
as always rolled by. Some kids were drinking
beer. Over at their blanket, on the grass, their
noise was loud and raucous. Two girls were
dancing to what seemed laughter and glee.
-
Off to the right, wasteland, surplus grounds,
the ruins of an old brick mill and - of course -
some monstrous and rusted oil tanks stuck onto
the ground. Gigantic round pillars, fizzed with
old paint and oxidation - rust-colored blue,
old pipes and nozzles, a guardhouse where no
one has been for years. The fence keeps out
what it can't let in. The old condoms on the
grass however, I'd bet, attest to something
else. Love grows where my Rosemary goes,
and all that old musical stuff. Everywhere, a
new glimmer of life and expectation. High,
high up, the white plume of some passing
jet, and, across the field, those girls just
dancing their time away.