Your swing needs oiling. Leaves rust trails all over my stoop. I circle your motion in protective pantyhose. I don't want stained feet. repeat. I'm dizzy watching you arc a maniac curve. Strapped in, you play with your buckle. You raise child's hands to some atheist god requesting a stalemate. I make rust shapes in the cement. A form of conversation. A question to the one who pushes you: Why don't you just stop?