There was a ****** at my childhood
playground today.

Don’t worry.
Just a small one.

Fitting on the tops
of the swing set bars

Feathers shedding
on me forgetting
to remember

the simplicity

of having no perspective
in a world of countless lenses—

It seems fitting,
that I’m peering through my glasses
as they crow: Death to the masses
On the pastel purple trusses

of a world I have to leave.