or the wind millennia before, roughly
when the Vikings (for all their
poetry) at least did their own rowing –
unlikely as they are to pop up nowadays

in ads for fathers
with proportional custody. Although they
would do well in this park
where dogs – in loose

and scratchy orbits – nosey
about the margins of
the gated playground
and kids jostle, shove, and swing

like wrecking balls.
Like ambassadors whose sending we regret.
The park is full of aggro dads.
I, poet, am one.