by Wylde Abandyn 02/23/15
they met in the park at dusk one day
two people shaped cutouts
darker than the shadow cast by the looming mountain
behind which the sun hid its face
ashamed as it was to witness such a personal moment
of internal pain and public discovery
she pushed a wheelchair draped in mourning black lace
he guided a baby carriage with the hood fully engaged
she spun him a yarn about her sickly old grampy
he told her a tale of single daddyhood
from within the draped wheelchair and the hooded baby carriage
silence
by the time that soft wind kicked up
the one that blows away the ashes of day
(night’s breath, she said grampy called it)
they were one in spirit
the next day, the garbage guy shook his head
as he tossed the perfectly good wheelchair
and brand new baby carriage
into the back of the truck
“You never know what you’ll find at the park,” he’d tell his wife later
