upon a renamed city park in poetry

folding chair at a summer fair
grade school and town library
on the green that’s in-between
life will pass me right on by
fifteen maybe twenty times
generations before and hence
faces unknown still familiar
remixed down a hundred years
all behind some picket fence
repainted by a man and then
his son and then son again
son after daughter after son
lineages blurring into one
cross by me with lemonades
crossing through the days
through decades and parades
always a band who’ll play
fortyish years ago my dad’s
but now my younger friends
don’t know when the cycle ends
truth is I don’t want to