WEBVTT

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There's a park my
son loves to go

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to that was built in WPA times.

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And it has a tunnel underneath
the road that he loves

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to go through and a train in it
and a giant concrete slide that

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was grandfathered in before
liability, obviously.

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And so he calls it tunnel park.

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That's what he calls it.

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So that's the name of this poem.

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"Tunnel Park."

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80 years ago during
those famous dark times

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when the government paid men
to build bridges and dams,

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they carved this park my
son loves out of a hill.

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The men needed to keep
working to get paid.

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So they made a long, dangerous
concrete slide kids scream

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down, their parents
watching with their hands

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over their mouths, then dug
this unnecessary cool aperture

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full of obscure shadows
through the hillside

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to the garden of famous
roses I don't care about.

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And, finally, some
secret stares,

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no matter how many
times we found,

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always seem like they were
forever waiting only for us.

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My son and I went upward.

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His red shirt kept
disappearing into the shadows.

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I became tired from
pointless worry.

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So we sat on one stone step
and shared some blue water.

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Through the leaves, we could see
a giant crumbling pastel house.

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It once was grand.

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Its dark windows still
look down on everything.

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It was so quiet.

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I could hear the
message everyone knows.

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Worse times are coming.

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Who isn't afraid?

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Only the dead.

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We went farther.

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The stairs never ended.

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We had to turn
back to our lives,

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knowing there is mystery
even in the new world.

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