The Park

The sun was going in,
and a ball missed my eye by an inch.

It was no match for the cup.
I was holding tepid water in the park;
“thanks a lot”,
I don’t forget to think.

I didn’t have enough
for a sandwich.
My legs and, kinda, soul
felt shorter than they are,
reclined on a flat, busy patch.

More of a stand in, and because of cuts,
rarer than fiction,
a new man they’ve got
pruning short an incoming plea.

The overflowing bins,
not his fault, not his job,
overflowing tin cans
or muffled walkie talkies
as his argument for the garden’s upkeep
scatters wildly.

I like him, he
didn’t serve, nor make me spill,
my beans.
I can tell he has other people’s priorities
to avoid.

Like rats leaving for a plague,
fur sleeked smooth by noble flood of
banana-flavoured milkshake.

They’re not even keeping score
and none apologised
for trembling my hand slightly,
being a family.

With a small ball
not even right for the game.

Too many jokes to downplay,
too much anger to come out funny.

Too much in the sun,
too much change, too little,
too short of soul –
that’s where they get it wrong
people should shut up,
not scream just because
they’ve found a patch
for a goal.

People need
green spaces.

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