Get Out the Hook

Swinging in the heather of the home you lived in from zero to six
now flattened, though you’ve put the swing back up and called that wretched teen
to tell them all about it again, only you got their agent,
so you throw yourself on the bricks as they responded rather coldly

when you called back and got the answer machine: now you’re bruised;
what you doing here anyway? Beneath your Olympic
gear you are cracked and beautiful, though insistent that
the swing only does one function as it should, which is back
and forth. Years ago you called this fun, pure, in-sync

then chaotic as the floor was elevating you
flatly round as you sharply turned your head to look at the handles
to make the game quicker, but next time. You call again
just as quickly to get the secretary this round—who’d need one?
for what purpose?—you rocking and rolling back and forth in the hook.