This is the playground of apologetics.
Some would like to walk by on odd Sundays.
Here the woodchips are all so soggy with crime,
But they are barefoot, playing in a pile of shoes.
See the sensitive lumberjack on his tireswing,
Up he jangles on chainlink ropes
To the treetops, intent to peak at their altitude.
At the far end the see-saw is lonely, uncontentious
At equilibrium, like a wooden gangplank:
Bowed at horizon, so impossibly steady.
Nothing says “I’m sorry” like this.

I like to walk by this place on odd Sundays.
“I am too old to play these games,” I think.
“I am too stubborn,” I justify
Because it takes immaturity to repent.
The apologetics swing a large open arc,
Fingers laced, they call “Red Rover!”
The uncapped salaryman takes stride.
He is clotheslined on the arms that would not break.
Not quite so contrite, I find myself aging this time
As I sit out and observe them at play.