Metallic hinges squeaked and then squawked
Single sliced rubber seat swung under a lime green bar.
An adolescent boy. Bemoaning his brother’s turn.
Heave, **. Swinging hard.
Capturing the tops of trees.
Leaning a few feet off the ground returning once more with fast pace.
Rose-colored cheeks, squinted,
One tear then two, until both cheeks puffed
Runway skids in the wood chips. Cruised him to a halt.
Sniffles, and tears were handled
Hand in hand
They were scripted together for life.

Poems aren't written,
they're found,
Somewhere in your head the words are waiting,
They're sprawled across the floor,
You just need to pick them up,
Make a path with them,
Let your path guide observers,
And if you can't write,
Walk down somebody's else's path first,

I strip away that skin,
the flesh and bones
until nothing is left,
but a single sad sob
in an empty world.