Cal's posterous

A night-time palette of blacks, browns, grays, dirty greens, tiny explosions of yellow from lamps and windows.  The wind rushes back and forth, sways past the man on the swing, he times his breathing with the swinging.

A trash can with green metal paint flaking and sided by wooden slats, benches lonely and begging for spring, playground without rustling feet, the ballfield backstopped by metal webbing, fences, bricks, a concrete wheelchair ramp, eyeless bleachers. The giant pushes modern art standing never moving never seeing anything not in front of him.

The man swings and starts to sing his voice says, "everything's gonna be alright now, everything's gonna be alright, get down stay up all night now, we'll do this one more time."  He sings this one more time.

Five plastic seats held by chains and metal bars hold no body no one no thing.  Only the one swings, only the one.