A Seasonal Cliché Soiree

In the end, her eyes are always searching for answers
in the usual places: on a beach her feet are drowned
and revived by a helpless foam clinging to and encircling
her restless ankles that stretch and dig for the sun, on a lake
she gazes off the edge of a wooden dock, soft ripples
reflecting in the moon, the wavering red in her glass, rings
twisted around her wandering fingers. But tonight I watch
as she quietly wonders alone in this abandoned playground;
a tricycle half-buried in the sand beneath her floating legs
she sways, in-and-out of touch with a glowing safety light
as rust peels and drops from her swing’s tired linked chains
like dying leaves in the cold. She doesn’t notice pink palms
turning black and orange as her falling eyes look up to see
my face – I try to explain, but do not understand. Hands
unquestionably dirty, I’ve already searched every star.


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