Past middle age I sit within its silent shade
and the 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