Lovers No Longer Walk - May 18 2026

 

Lovers No Longer Walk

May 18 2026

The park is quiet

a little after dark

as rain clouds threaten

and the wind picks up.

The picnickers are gone.

Leaving only the ants,

an army 

of battle-hardened scavengers

scurrying through the grass

in all-black camouflage. 

Along with some trash

tossed haphazardly 

as one naturally does.

KFC

that slipped half-eaten

from little toddlers’ greasy hands,

distracted kids

who keep wandering off by themselves.

And watermelon rinds

littering the grass,

half-eaten

so they grin like rictus smiles

missing bad teeth;

organic waste

so it must be OK

to let the earth reclaim them.

Half-smoked butts

uncrushed

lie scattered on the ground,

flicked away still lit

and left to smoulder there.

Their lipstick stained filtertips

seem unseemly, somehow;

like a beautiful woman

with a croupy cough

hacking up phlegm,

or makeup

laid-on too thick.

What story do they tell

of secret trysts and hissy fits

and final bitter words?

The sounds of laughter

and family squabbles

have exhausted themselves;

fanning out in waves

through the cooling air

until eventually flattening out;

If only the sour taste

of sibling rivalry

could as easily be erased. 

No one plays

on the safety-first slides

judgment-free climbing walls

and equal access monkey bars

made from local wood.

No parents hover,

no shy kids look on

as if their noses

were pressed against the glass.

Against their nature

the swings hang still as plumb lines;

vacant seats

open to all comers

but not in any rush.

 

Their landing pits

are well dug-in

to the well-trampled grass.

So it’s easy to see

where bored teens

end up killing time;

hanging out ironically, of course,

but with a tinge of nostalgia

they’d never admit.

Where they swing languidly

passing a doobie hand to hand,

trailing their feet through the dirt

and gazing dreamily up.

The frisbees and dogs have gone.

Lovers no longer walk

arm-in-arm.

While the skateboarders have rumbled off

to who knows where,

leaving the walkways safe

for little old ladies

and moms with babies in fancy prams

as big as compact cars

and costing almost as much.

So when the rain comes, there will be only me,

walking by myself

in raincoat and galoshes

and bright yellow hat

leaking water down my neck,

muttering under my breath

about the state of the world

and the wreck we’ve made of it.

About bad weather

that somehow suits my temperament.

And about the garbage they left

in a sodden mess

crumpled on the ground.

I suppose how one deals with existential despair that feels overwhelming:  focusing in on something manageable. But also blowing up in a way that raises eyebrows, seeming out of proportion to the relatively minor provocation. Here, my patience is frayed: I’m annoyed, curmudgeonly, keen to complain, and — it seems — bothered by everything. In short, not that far from the truth, lol!

When my mother attained a certain age, as well as a level of acceptance, she not only let the grey in her hair show, but started unabashedly calling herself a “little old lady”. So a small nod to her. (In the poem, it was “wobbly old ladies” before I couldn’t resist changing it.)

I quite enjoyed the image of cool teens on the swing set “hanging out ironically” as they swung slowly back and forth, leaning back and stinking of pot.  … Nothing I haven’t seen myself!