Keening (Poetry)

I do not doubt that I came out of the dark
but I am not anxious to return there
even though I hear the echoes call of late —
summon me back with a maternal tone
to leave this ruined playground
now at last the evening’s come.

These swings need oiling — creaking even
as the wind goes by and pushes no one there...
the slide stands crooked and the seesaw’s rotted
underneath its paint. The roundabout struggles
to revolve — long-past all emotional repair.

The common grass wore thin some years ago
and it will never grow back now.
The notice that prohibits dogs is pointless since
no one comes here anymore but me
and a gang of jerky pigeons squabbling
                                amongst themselves.

I dare to linger — talk to any ghost willing to listen
confide scrapbook memories as the dusk settles. Tell
as many stories as I can compose to my heart’s beat —
a dam burst bobbing with impromptu confessions
                                keening the air
all the while aware mother dark is sure to come
and get me.