Each to and fro

And back and forth

Propels me skyward true;

Through mottled yellow canopies,

Into the feather flaked sanctuaries.

The rope is blue-plastic-cankered,

And frayed

With concrete securely anchored,

To that spot behind the antique shed;

So far away from where I lay my head.

But my head would soon lay once more

Between the gravel and concrete floor.

Quick. Slip. And snap to fall.

One huge swing to fly like Icarus soon,

A tumble and a cry, and an almighty bawl.

A boy weeps winded like a piano out of tune.

The concrete swing is no more.