Past middle age I sit in the gnarly shade

and flickering sun rays of the dead:

grandfathers, grandmas, aunts, uncles,

cousins, and a brother I’m finally

getting to know in my dreams

I struggle for words to describe for them

what they can no longer see or hear

That people in the park work hard, so very hard,

to be joyful and good:

muscular women on roller blades;

helmet heads on bikes cutting curbs close;

older couples seeking another chance provided

they walk every day, give up strong gins;

moms in ball caps and halter tops

jogging behind buggies holding forth

newborns with Winston Churchill chins;

bums sunning next to trash bags and stolen carts;

the forgotten sunken in decrepit lawn chairs

or holding cane poles over the lake;

dogs squeezing out mounds on walking paths

while their captors yank leashes and look away

I can almost hear the universe

cock itself



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