I’m sorry I cannot remember their names.

But I will remember their story.

Come to the park 

Down the river.

To push her dead child

On a swing.

Not knowing where to go 

Who to turn to

Having exhausted all her connections.

It is rare but it does happen.

A mother slips through the cracks.

And the network forgets or is busy

And doesn’t check up on her.

And they stare at the water

And the ryhtmn of swaying.

No one can understand this place.

But I have seen it 

Been close enough to know the spot.

If not the details.

the clothes they were wearing.

or the mother’s blank stare

off into the river

off somewhere.

off not here.