From my window, I see children. There's a playground out there. It's small and simple, but it's well-kept. On sunny days, I can hear laughter. When the sun starts to set, the older kids arrive - the ones without chapparones. They speak crudely and they flirt boldly. With the children gone, they own that land.
The nights see a different crowd: the college students. They're drunk and rowdy; they have no balance; they fall off the teeter-tot. Part of them is adult . . . but while their world's spinning they're kids again, with no concerns or responsibilities. They don't flirt much; they're too busy yelling, like the children.
For all of them, even the parents that keep things safe, the world changes on one tiny lot. They aren't in the real world anymore - the children, the teens, the students - They're in a different place with simpler rules.
I'm going to drive around Worcester and collect all the syringes lying on the curbs. Then I'm going to buy a shovel. And I'm going to bring those syringes to the playground. And bury them. Right after I file down all the chains on the swingsets.
Why? Because they're all so fucking loud.
;-) winky face.
1 comment:
My loud friends and I plan to have many a good times on those safe as hell swings.
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