as if in love, ollie with a slap. Older guys too macho
for helmets cause it's the weekend and Bernie's not around
to kick them to the curb. I close my eyes, listen to
the different songs a symphony of skateboards can sing
depending on the weight and speed and skill. Until new
sound makes my eyes pop open wide in time to see a guy
slide the rail as nearby ice cream truck plays "Old MacDonald."
Trying a trick, someone hopes to hear applaud of
boards beating against the ground, but it is not to be. He
loses control, mutters something about loose trucks and
something else that rhymes. Skinny jeans and beanies,
uniform of kids all trying to be different. Five-year-old
in pads almost as big as he is takes a fall. "You okay,
kid?" man-child calls. Eventually, they'll learn each other's
names. Girls congregate at table or on grass, maybe smoking
it, trying too hard in too-short-shorts, more make-up
than they need, eyes pleading to be noticed by boys who
came out here escaping drama, just to hone their craft.
Do they notice reading woman here alone, praying no
one gets hurt? Doubtful, 'though I've fussed when kids
beneath the canopy venture into conversations
best voiced in private, or better yet, postponed a few years
hence. Respect yourself, I want to scream, enough to notice there
are other people in the world who don't want to hear
about you sucking someone's dick. I left that time, ears
tired and bleeding, long before the sun set and skaters
headed for homes where they're simply someone's sons
or daughters. The air is different here, they defy gravity.
Here they're more. They fly.
(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013
Today, I sat under the covered area and had delightful conversations with a nursing student, another Adam, a young girl who's undergone extensive facial surgery, and a young wife from Canada who explained all of her tattoos in great detail. Perhaps I won't sit in my beach chair off to myself at the park any more, at least some of the time, because it was quite enlightening.
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