A third Person Persona Poem: Parklands
Fletch squats his fat butt down onto the
where it sways, half belched,
in the decaying park.
The children fight and play
while Fletch smokes fat Rothmans
and itches his ears
with his newspapers.
Business sheets. Thick and pink as
Twice as useless and unstudied.
Sometimes kids swing, or point out his
slow eyes. Thighs.
Trees recoil without cannons,
crenillating and slow.
Watched. Creaked autumns and Sundays
and Mondays and spring,
buttonholing the days.
Fletch likes the park.
In his pocket, there is a ring
that his older sister
left by the stove.