Childhood Jungle

James Agee Park, ragged and scraggly,

is not the childhood jungle of the playground

of my elementary school, hemmed in by

wire fencing, enticing with it’s mysteries.

It’s 3 am, and still hot and humid, without mercy.

So few stars, but there is rocous laughter,

loud music, raised voices.

I drink iced tea I bought for a dollar.

I might be here till morning. I might leave in a

minute. I’m waiting for the nerve to go,

or for aliens, the fey, or angels to take me home.

For anything to change.

Few stars roll above me, but they broke their promise,

their light did not show the way, and holy writ cut out

my innocence and lust, so I could be a better consumer.

I finish my tea, and crush the ice in my teeth.

A light blinks in the sky, moves strangely, almost drunkenly.

Maybe the mad bastards or the alien bastards have come,

or it’s just an out of reach wonder in a bad, sleepless night.

I remember a past love, and hold the memory fondly.

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