Broken Playground

I was on the way home,
Leaving some old neighborhood.
When I saw that old, sad, Broken Playground
And never forgot it.

The half-buried tires under the see-saw ends were
Worn and weary, weak, wounded,
Played much then, now forgotten.

The once gay-colored slides are damaged,
Faded colors, broken tubing,
All covered with graffiti.
Like contemptuous black vultures.

The swings are heartbroken.
There is no other word for it, I am afraid,
They are sad, their sturdy straps that once held
Lively, bouncing, children
Are torn or mangled.
They look like they want to hold children again.

Then there is the grass,
Not rich or full enough to cover the whole field,
Like a threadbare coat stretched over the bare shoulders
Of some sad, lonely, beggar.

The trees are gnarled grotesquely,
But not by nature.
Maybe all the crying sounds from the playgrounds have hurt them,
Their great branches stunted by their sorrows.

I didn’t hear birds singing,
But I was in the car,
And then again,
Who really cares
For one, lonely, sad, Broken Playground?