they positioned their little bodies
on their big, silver rocks
shaded by aluminum trees and
innocence

one of them bobbed the head
of a stuffed animal like mine,
rotting in my bedroom but alive in his humble hands
as he asked if they could be
friends forever.

I don't want to say he is naive,
but sat upon this distant park bench
I'm less than dispirited to admit
that the aluminum trees can crumble;
the silver rocks will rust, and
that it was, in fact, his own little hand
bobbing in false reassurance;
as he already relied on something
artificial
for solace.