A Poet in the Park in January
When I see kids in the park with tubes and boards,
watched over by bundled-up parents,
I don’t bother telling myself,
I could be that parent,
dutifully passing on all I know
of trudging up and sliding down.
It’s never a case of jealousy,
of crawling into fitful sleep,
my face awash in teary pillow,
sobbing for all the offspring I never had.
I don’t ever want to be the one
who zips up the leg of that snowsuit,
brushes away the white stuff
from the backs of tiny jackets.
No need to rush to the aid
of the bawling brat
on the overturned sled.
He’s not my boy.
I didn’t buy that sled.
Sure, I linger by the bustling white playground,
but just to imagine myself at that age,
gliding down hills,
tumbling, struggling to my feet,
laughing, tossing the biggest, whitest ball
at the girl in the long blonde pigtails.
I’m a poet, not a father.
I sire these recollections.
The rest are unrecorded at worst,
loved at best.
John Grey is an Australian born poet. Recently published in International Poetry Review, Vallum and the science fiction anthology, “The Kennedy Curse” with work upcoming in Bryant Literary Magazine, Natural Bridge and the Pedestal.
Copyright © 2015 John Grey
Randomly Accessed Poetics 
A very believable and moving poem from John Grey.
BZ Niditch