There’s a Shady Spot to Push Through

It’s a shame there’s no way in
To recollection without

Passing through the construction
Sites of pronouns—we, you, they,

And the rest of them. A child
Sits on a yellow plastic

Black-wheeled contraption
That scoots across the green lawn

When feet press against the grass
And the warm dirt under grass,

Summer somewhere, privilege
Of a few moments, who knows?