To the Park

To the guy at the park with the guitar:
I can't hear you above the mowers and birds and wind.

To the guy at the park on the lawn mower:
You look like you're jet skiing.

To the birds at the park:
Mmmm, flying fence high and bobbing for worms among the grass.

To the wind in the park:
Stop undressing me.

To the grass in the park:
As long as I'm undressed, I want to lay down like a snake and snuffle up your green and get a nostril full of those heavy-scented wimpy-looking clover flowers.

To the leaves on the trees in the park:
You are only hands waving, but bend back like you are the second language of the wind.

To the wind in the park:
Stop undressing me.

To the sidewalk on the way to the park:
I look for messages in your spider leg cracks and have found out my mother's secrets in your patterns and tiny collections of pollen debris.

To the sidewalk on the way back from the park:
You are so drunk from sun.

To the men and women who travel from park to park:
I have nothing to give because I have the priviledge of walking around with just a couple of keys and a smile for my friend the drunken sidewalk.

Copyright Louise Robertson