Forest Park

By Robin D. Hudechek

Her fingers curled around the fence spokes
clinging to the threads of wire
as if they were kite strings
and she was borne on a cloud
of kites with long tiger tails.
She liked the way they whipped the wind
higher than a kick ball that buzzed up, distant
like a bee hovering over flowers.
Watcha lookin’ at, retard? Her knuckles whitened
around rusted wire.
She was close enough
to hear the shouts but not the voices.
At dusk, when children streamed past her
on shiny new bikes, she gathered kite strings
from the ground where they had been stomped by footprints.
She imagined them growing as wild as a dandelion’s hair
but they were spotted, torn,
and when she lifted one
it would not fly.