It said it updated. But apparently it didn't. If you see this twice, blame LJ.

As fortold, I'm going to start posting some of the poetry I've been working on for class.

This one is rather depressing. It's a childhood memory poem that's also dramatic monologue, which means no, this is not autobiographical. Although the playground is based on the one in Riverside Park, which I could see from my bedroom window in the city.

This isn't the final draft, so criticism is appreciated.

Playground

The swing set creaked hollowly as I shifted
my weight. The filthy rubber tips of my beaten-up
play shoes trailed in the pungent cedar chips
of the quiet playground.
Childrens' voices ceased to echo
through the sharp hills
of the park, which grew bitter
with winter's first bite.

'Go and play,' dad had said with vacant eyes.
Billy and I took off through the splintered
doorframe into the chilly
afternoon air without stopping
to find our scarves. Mama didn't notice.

As the first tendrils of crimson
splashed across the sky
and my empty stomach cried out
I knew that we should be getting back.
But as we marched somberly
back to our house with the cheap peeling clapboard,
kicking up dried brown leaves, Billy slipped
his tiny, pudgy hand into mine.

'Maybe momma cooked pasketti tonight,' he said,
eyes bright with hope and the first touches of cold.
I nodded and brushed down his goosefeather hair.

'It's okay, sweetie,' my father would say,
reaching to stroke my smooth mane with his gnarled
hands. I would wince,
hearing my mother's hushed sobs
from behind the locked bathroom door.
But Billy would lean into his hand and smile
at his attention. I wished that I was
as smart as Billy.