Baggage as Art: Sweltering

for the man at the park.

Thirteen years later, I don’t just leave,
but I tie my bike around his thoughts of the afternoon – sticky –
and I swelter him to a fence of sun, to grieve

my innocence as he asked, if, by my leave,
he might touch my
thirteen years later, I don’t just leave.

He pulled from his pants, white as under a farmer’s sleeve,
flesh, writhing – jello on a spoon, jiggly.
I swelter him to a softball fence, to grieve.

The adrenaline pumped around my body late into the eve
as I nightmared summersticky potbellies under the moon, hazy.
Thirteen years later, I don’t just leave.

My teammates, only by my silence I deceive.
Under the three o’clock sun, my shorts were short, by necessity.
Still, I swelter him to a softball fence of sun, to grieve

my innocence injured, my pedals pushing to be freed,
my eyes from his flesh, my ears from his false lullaby.
Thirteen years later, I don’t just leave,
but I swelter him fast to a chainlink fence of sun, to grieve.