the years

the children,
apple cheeked
and brazen,
swing and slide
in the saw dust
playground
as the sun goes
down, while
the women
stand with hands
on hips
at the gate,
speaking of things
they don't talk
about with
their husbands.
the men sit inside,
with feet astride
tables, resting
their minds
in front of the blue
glow, that
never fades.
and years like
falling leaves
drift by.