The Swing I sit in the fading light of an Ozarks evening -- Three days before the solstice And the night before Aquarius dawns -- Watching the nightbirds gobble bugs And listening to the neighborhood kids shout At each other in the distance To the accompaniment of a screeching swing chain. Here I am, in a place I'd rather not be, Doing things I don't want to do, For a wage that barely pays my way, Sixteen months before I turn 50. And I can't help but wonder how I got here. Overuse, abuse, neglect and the pitiless elements Have made that park swing squeal its chain. Hanging quiet now as the evening darkens into clear-skyed night, It no more knows than do I.