Playground
Maureen Bard

I.
He rides low
Hell's Angel on a Harley
whose wheels need oil
they squeal like a pig
as he pedals keystone cop speed
on his trike.
His lips sputter engine's roar
plastic trike treads rumble
He rolls
the blacktop path into the playground
looking for action.


What to do?
He moonwalks the spongy surface
a revamped playground where no merry
go round whirls--that revolving contrivance
flinging friends--a liability now
No more rough ridges on the slide
to rip clothes or slice skin
instead the static of the plastic
makes his hair stand on end
sneakers squeak along the chute
kicking off the laggard at the bottom.

Wanna play?
He asks the splay-kneed pony
tailed girl in pink ruffled pedal pushers
and sparkly flip flops digging
in the sand. Tempted he eyes her blue
shovel, desirous, as it fills
a spinning gear and sand sifts pointlessly on the desert below
Someone cries no and mine
but eyes vacant a Sisyphus at her task
she hears nothing
He takes her green rake and makes furrows around them.

II.

Barstool swivels
to cocktail shaker maracas
he twists and scans the scene
A blond inverts a conical glass to her lips
ignores him when he asks
are you a model?
just draws hieroglyphs in a margarita salt dish
Bartender's hair gelled into a spiky sunburst
rises and sets, salutes him as he strides out
Ducati keys clutched
Have a good one.