and another:

when the trampoulines
in your backyard
begin to whisper to one another at night

they complain

bruised and sagging elasticity
like the plastic grocery bags
beneath grandma's small brown eyes

see, your children's feet
are swollen and pink
seemingly innocuous

but, physics, my dear
oh physics, adds weight to their descent
slowly tearing tarpouline flesh

a single thread extending with each bouyant landing

and while you, maam
drink brown soda pop
watching your husband fixing fences
in his leather boots
and blue jeans

the children take small flights
propelling into the warm air
that rises from the pastures
like some phantom
ascending from a freshly occupied grave