Sunday in the Park

The children have found a corpse in the sky.
Do we hug them to our torsos, cover their eyes,
And pretend it’s not there? Or do we admit, yes,
This happens to us all, and it’s not uncommon
For playing children to stumble upon?
There will be questions which we can anticipate.
They’ll want to know about ropes and devices
Of deception, which we must deny exist
Even if we suspect something. If not ropes, they’ll
Persist, then magic? Well, not specifically, no,
We must reply, although we all shoot glances.
There is nothing on the horizon just now,
And perhaps the children will return to
Kite flying, when one of us, just then,
Begins her assent. It’s always so jerky,
Like lifting a large trunk onto a cargo ship,
And several others have suspiciously disappeared,
And more have dressed in all black.
But up she goes, eyes crossed out,
Limbs in broken poses, fluids leaking on the roses.
All we can say is see, children, see. It’s not so bad.