Walking through the park
A brindled bull dog choke chained to my wrist
Pushing my year old grandson
snoozing in a three wheeled jogging stroller
I'm tender and tough
This old run down park is too.
Paint crews know this place.
When the budget can spare the hours
they struggle to stay ahead of the graffiti.
We jog by two tatted gang kids
moving toward the shadows cast by the old olive trees.
Shade and breeze beckon.
Laid out on the cool grass one hand on the dog,
long stretched and content,
the other on Logan's stroller.
I begin to doze.
Logan's chubby grubby toes turned out as he dreams
this most sweet