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Separated

John T. Hitchner

The boy swing-clings to rope-vines,
calls like Tarzan over toys and stones,
scuffs dirt, stops.
Hanging still, a loose-shirted sinew,
he mumbles words his toys know,
as Dad’s tires crunch pebbles.

The girl imagines a lover’s arms,
but Dad’s shoulder’s soft,
his arms enough dream now.
He kids new braces,
she dips a silver smile
knowing he’d say that.
Finger-twirling hair,
she is twelve, fifteen, twenty—
so many ages for so little time.

Dad scouts windows.
“Mom’s inside,” his daughter tells.
Her shoulders shiver questions.
Silent, he remembers telling her stories.
He has none now.

“You gonna stay?” the boy asks.
“Not today,” his dad says.

Time twists endings.

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