by Cole McNamara / perilpoet

In Shelton, Washington, an old logging town, 
there’s a park tucked down on 6th Street. 
There isn’t much to it— 
a gazebo, a few tired trees, 
and Goldsborough Creek, its best feature,
slipping by like it has somewhere better to be. 

Signs ring the edges,
warning, scolding, turning people away.
A camera from the yard next door 
keeps its red eye pointed at me.

Rumors fly through the community— 
homeless camps, drugs, violence. 
They say it’s dangerous down there,
not just the park but all of downtown. 

I don’t see it that way. 
You attract what you are 
and what you fear. 

So I go, from time to time, 
to sit in the thin, clean silence. 
The park is always vacant, 
no voices, no trash, no demands— 
just salmon in the creek and me, 
alone with my thoughts.

If you like this piece, you might also enjoy:

• You Are Not Alone — a Hearth poem reminding you that idols, strangers, and your own family are tired too, and you still have more life left in you.
• Culdesac Crew — a Hearth poem about pinecone wars, dumpster-diving, all-night Pokémon marathons, and the bittersweet truth about our childhood crew.
• I am a Writer — a Hearth poem about wobbling between doubt and delight, quibbling and scribbling your way into finally claiming “writer” as your name.