We sit on swings, the canvass kind that conform to your butt,
holding you snug, gripping you maybe a little too tight,
so you feel, the longer you stay strapped into them,
that you’re losing blood flow to parts of your body.
Still it feels somehow like I’m swinging away in mad arcs,
trying my best to go over the bar and do a full 360 flight,
ending only back here if I hold on foolishly, not flying away.
I push back and forth some, my feet dragging in the gravel,
while you only twist in yours, moving slightly side to side.
Neither of us is swinging; we could be sitting someplace else.
I’ve gradually gone selectively deaf as you give your speech
because I know from history where this conversation’s going.
My eyes make out a heart-shaped figure in a cloud formation,
but I don’t say anything about this now, watch it disperse,
knowing it might be inappropriate given my foreknowledge
of what you’re about to say to me for this last time we speak.
Lanning Lee 