McGillicuddy Park

This is the first

time we’ve been here

since 9/11. The seedling that

was planted

gives us shade. The toddler

who kicked our ball

might be a surgeon. The ins &

outs of brains.

The infant in a

stroller’s given birth. Maybe that is her

behind the swings, pushing

both her twins who’ll

live forever.

You tell me I’m mistaken.

We were here in 2010—

albeit half-an-hour.

The sun had melt our lollies.

A woman who was pregnant

said hello. Her stomach

like a wet balloon.

Her child by now is

out there driving reckless. The rush of

fentanyl. Or maybe he’s

already in the clink. His first & second

murders are behind him. As for the third,

it will occur in 2040

while he’s out. But today is not

the morrow. The girl

who’s in a car seat’s

overheating. We’re the ones

who club the windshield, scold

the teenaged mum. Not much older

than her daughter  

on that evening

she goes missing.

By then we’ll bob in rockers;

skim the morning

paper on our porch. Tired of the

tech that made us age. A story on

page 11. Her Nikes by the river

which were stained. Her body

a cacophony of bruise.

His arraignment

at the court house

once a nook where we

mourned the dead.

Andreas Gripp

September 4, 2026

photograph: Jupiter Images