Lone Mountain Park

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



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


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