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Jane Zwart
The Park at Night
At night it is another country, its hospitality
a mere cat door. Not only the feral enter. Kids,
limber, faster than the cops who chase them,
steal in under the cover of a darkness they burst
tossing cherry bombs from slides. The park closes
at dark, but some warm evenings, I see a woman
shaking samaras from a Vellux blanket—not as
denouement; she is readying herself for anything
rather than going. The park closes at dark, but
before first light, I see a man sit up and stretch
in a pavilion where, on weekends, nine moms
salute the sun. It would be too soft were I to tell you
the park is safe at night, but to say its trespassers
could not be innocents—that would be too hard.