boy on a swing

I see the boy on the swing.

it's not me,
but it could be.

the rusted seat, the squeak
of the chains
as I push
off with my boots,

upward with a crow like
creak.

the sand is brown,
a trough dug out where other
children
have swung,
shoes dragging with each push.

swinging as the sun set,
quietly pondering the bluest
of skies,
the tilt of roof tops,
the chimney with it's ashes,
a darkened plume,

seeing the world as it really is
and isn't, swinging back and forth,
higher and higher,
until at
last we are found.