Growing up
by Stacy Stiles

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The faded paint on the sign declares
“Fantasyland” over the curled back
of a sleeping dragon. The playground
rises behind, it’s wooden towers and
splinter-filled railings elegant and tacky
all at once.

Memories rise as thick
as the smell of the newly cut grass.
Hours of mischief-tinged giggles
a soft, sweaty hand clasped in mine
my hair heavy and wind-tussled
across my face, watching the river
slick by.

I used to throw coins
into the bone-dry fountain
conjuring magic and
wishing for adventure.

I slip off the rose-colored glasses
of childhood. Reality surges
to the surface like a buoy
held underwater and then released,
parting water and tearing the air.

Across the bridge, children laugh
and clamber onto the rusted metal
of the overworked merry-go-round
While parents light up and blow smoke
into the morning air.

In the gazebo a man in a hoodie holds
a package. Another man hurriedly snatches
it from his hands, eyes darting,
nostrils flaring. His car door closes
with a paranoid slam.

The river's water runs slow
Clogged with snow and discarded trash
Sodden cigarettes and the silver sheen
of empty soda cans. A duck stands
on the edge, the plastic circle
of a six-pack ring entangling
its throat like a necklace.

A long-bearded man lays curled
in the shelter of a wooden slide
His dirty white shirt rises and falls
with his sleeping breaths
I wonder if they are sour-tinged
with alcohol, bitter and sharp as the cold.

And still, the wonder
lies beneath, sleeping
waiting for the squinted eyes
and the daydreaming minds of the young.