Inside the boarded and chained and locked park,

with wire clippers and bobby pins scattered in front of you.

On top of a splintering half pipe,

they’re not the people you would be with

by anything other than necessity,

but it’ll do.

Sitting in front of the 7-Eleven,

asking favors of strangers.

Picking at the gravel with your bare feet,

someone else is wearing your shoes,

Eating chips with wet hair framing your face.

You don’t do this often,

but it’ll do.

Lying on your back in the middle of a dead end street.

The neighbors aren’t home but they left the candles on the porch lit.

Listening to your best friend cry over the phone to you,

holed up in a hospital bed,

with wires coming out of her chest,

crying along with her,

trying to hide it.

This won’t do.

Climbing over hills in the nice part of town to reach a construction site.

The cloud of bugs disperse to get a taste of you,

there are animal tracks leading out of the woods.

Someone’s started a barbeque in the park,

the smoke is rising,

you don’t like the bugs or the smell,

but it’ll do.

Zipping down a residential street at midnight.

Standing on bike pedals,

arms stretched wide,

embracing the wind,

hair flitting at your shoulders,

swerve around an open car door.

Yeah, this’ll do.