Dear America

The heat not having broken all month long, we stood in line and watched a boy race down the park's tallest slide, drop into the shallow pool below, from which he rose renewed, a look of joy, relief across his face. My son held my hand, and looking up, judged how long it'd take to reach the top of the stairs. In front of us, the man, a head taller, fifty pounds, at least, more than I, wore red trunks, his hair, dark brown, short. I saw the swastika first, White Power, inked across his back, the scene: skeletons climbed his spine above a sea of flames. I felt each breakable bone in my boy's hand, he, who days before asked to live with us forever. Idiot, my mother called me once because, You think everyone is good. The man looked across the park at no one, younger than I'd have thought, and when the line, as if with one mind, began to move again, he stepped forward, the foot or two between us, perilous, uncrossable.