Red baby swing,
old porch ceiling,
no children
no knotted noose creekings,
just pink fading plastic
and empty body contours
fried to a silence on sophmore street.

Somewhere in the distance,
hacked up like mucus in the sweet
honeysuckle bushes that stick all over the
"tobacco free school" sign,
cigarettes light up the toy's
once faithful companion with brown ash and
acid, self-annihlation; all convieniently stationed
beneath the dumb gum trees.

and in his sister's stomach is an accident
that sent her down the street in pieces,
wickedly loose like old latex balloons,
back home to the old house and it's
greying grandmothered steps;

beneath the scrutany of the glaring
white cross of the seminary
just past the tops of the trees,
and constantly watched by the

red baby swing,
hanging from the old porch ceiling.
No more children destined to its fading,
just her knotted noose creeking
above the pink , fading plastic that strangles
in the suffocating sunlight of the morning
that casts an empty contour of her body in shadows
on sophmore street.