Mountain Ash, Blue Spruce
The names of streets are
Like fragile wiring in the walls
to a young child.
Behind stained floral wallpaper
In a home they'd never wish to visit
meaningless
They see the appliance
At the end of the cord
Forced into protracted being
They see the familiar
our house, their house, the park
Except park also means escape
A fire-brick red slide falling
Off a steel platform
A glaucous rope too painful to climb
And an arching ladder that defined vertigo
To someone who never knew
the word
Watched over by three stationary animals
Rocking on metal springs that pinched their
unsuspecting legs
And a trail beside a callous river
Whose company always seemed
too short