Revisit

Revisit

The waterslide in the abandoned water park is pink.

It was red once
It was red once
It was red once

but the sun has seen to that.

The chain-link fence and autumn leaves
deify the plastic gazebo
where we bumper-carred our child summer days
away.

Look at all the sidewalk slabs. Shall we count them?
Shall we at least pretend to? Imagine a world
where archaeologists discover our bones
just here, where we’re standing; just here,
staring at that once-red slide
through the criss-crossed metal—imagine
that world and believe those archaeologists
were just human enough to realize
we were children once.

There are ghosts
on the red water slide—
merry ghosts—screeching
out laughter. They didn’t die here, or,
only part of them did, as a part of us did
some years ago.

The autumn leaves are red
and the sun will not touch their color.

I guess every moment of happiness
is a kind of death. Each smile
sheds a ghost.

It’s hard to believe there was water here, once.

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