weekend dads

I found sixty-one cents
under the picnic table at the park
this morning;
two quarters, a dime, and
a penny:
they were lying in the dirt
as the wind whipped around the sun,
curling around everything
from the northeast,
bringing out the kite-flyers,
and the weekend dads,
with their sad faces, pretending
to laugh with their small children,
while they quietly wished that
all their regrets would suddenly
be picked up by the wind
and sent aloft --
to be snagged in the top
of an old oak tree --
and never be felt again,
so they could be free.

September 6, 2009.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.

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