Seventh Street Park

In this black and white on the mantle
he pushes her on a swing. Fresh from Sunday service
or their daughter’s noon meal. She’s a trim seventy
yet everything about her is large: peonies burst
on her belted dress, pearl clip-ons, iridescent bulbs
on her ears, straw hat trellised by dried blossoms
and vines as if to say we still live.
She’s one-handing it, neck and pumps
stretched to the wind, grinning widely, the creases
on her face like furrows of soft sand.
Behind her he’s got a death grip on the metal.
Plain white shirt cufflinked at his wrists,
black eyes peer through wire frames,
burning the camera’s lens.

Oh, how opposites attract.
Oh, how some just learn to let go..

Published
Poppyseed Kolache, A Poetry Collection, 2010