Ghetto Park Days
Ghetto park days,
Trash on the ground.
Sounds of yelling, cussing, laughter bounce from the courts to the playground.
Kids pushing and playing,
Fighting and saying,
“Who wanna to be it?”
Picnic table filled with aunties;
Gossiping as they sit.
Drug deals, bare feet,
No adult supervision, broken swings.
Dogs off leashes, broken glass pieces.
Spray paint tags, overfilled garbage bags.
Echoes of pool splash, creaky seesaw almost giving whiplash.
Baseball field’s worn diamonds,
People staying out the way like islands.
Despite the state of it all—
It’s still community.
It’s ours y’all.
4 thoughts on "Ghetto Park Days"
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great rendering of a scene and yes! to;
Despite the state of it all—
It’s still community.
It’s ours y’all.
Thank you! I think some forget where they come from. I think some feel they are on the other side of the fence, but don’t realize we share the same grass. I think some forget they are part of the village.
Life certainly is a poem. <3
Indeed it is!