My urban playground is rarely still, only resting to be fixed and filled.
My urban playground is blue, usually, with words scrolling across its semi-human forehead.
My urban playground has only a jungle gym, no swings; every crack, corner and crevice built to be lurched.
My urban playground has three names and three sets of three numbers, but it’s bodies number many more.
My urban playground can be lonely, lively, lazy and on those late occasions when you manage to find a seat, lulling.
My urban playground is that of the city. It’s inhabitants swaying and swinging in forced unison as it trots along.
My urban playground is a millipede on wheels with an accordion midsection that wrinkles around turns.
My urban playground has two shopkeepers. The magician, who inhumanly navigates lengthy rigid metal around 75 degree corners. And the robot, who takes, talks and returns while resting in a hopefully forgiving seat.
My urban playground has a schedule but is as unaware of its existence as I am of its details.
My urban playground speaks many tongues; mainly, that of the country in which it resides overpowered by the snarling and snorting of exploding diesel.
My urban playground is a bus. I ride it every day. I have had a lot of time to reflect.
