An Abandoned Waterpark
by A.M. Broadous
Authorities call it trespassing,
but I call it paying my respects
under snakes of sun-bleached plastic.
The only way to consecrate this
gouged AstroTurf is to recall what
it once was—fields of green around
a white pool with yellow inner tubes.
Now the river is truly lazy, a tattooed
ditch chasing itself with brown silt
and ghosts of chlorophyll.
In these ruins, every measure of time
abandons its hope for healing
something not worth saving.
Poets with spray cans fool themselves
by thinking they can write the rhetoric
that this is not a graveyard for colors
but a place where everything dries
and flows as fast as our falling tears.