Possum Pouch

Black Stone 53

A CHILD PUSHES K on the playground under oaks. I check casually to see if he's okay. When he's not looking I make eye contact with the other boy, pinch up my face and sneer wildly. He runs away in confusion. Long shadows make up morning on the lawn. Parents watch their spawn climb ladders, zip down slides and chase around in deep beds of hardwood mulch. An inquisitive woman slinging her infant corners me under a slide. She wants conversation, wants to pry in and take something away from me. She asks K how old he is, but he won't give in to her. "He's two-and-half," I say, finally, sick of hearing the question repeated with good-natured hostility. I'm braced for her world opinions. She seems like the kind of person eager to share them. She discourses on the National Good and her Private Gods. In her diaper bag there's a bottle of juice for her toddler and a package of chips. I give her the quick backgrounder: one tot, one infant, recovering wife. Full time pops, occasional private eye. I feel cheap for having told her anything. K cries from the mulchy bottom by the monkey bars. The mother scolds her son for pushing. We exit between long oak shadows. At chez Smith-Nguyen, Waylon lounges, Hoa showers, the cat eats, etc. The sun shines but wild, urban grasses and weeds grow knee-high. Roses in the front window proliferate, sending many pink buds up from thorny thickets of green. Outside, a crow walks in the street, head high and cocky.