He treads across the playground.
A blunt weight on his shoulders.
Muscles tense like knives. The head
forced downward. His slanted
neck a rifle twisted in combat.
His gross geometry traces the dirt.
He makes a gallant effort to look
at birds settled in the high trees.
Fine bodies and smug faces. The full
swings and merry-go-round in fresh
August light. The kind of life, he
always suspected. Children coming
and going. All hollers and sweat.
The vagrant blossoms, others growing tall.
(c) Radames Ortiz 2009
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