Wednesday in the Park with Paul
Let’s pretend it’s summer, eat sherbert
in the fog. I’ve lost the sense of question
I've expected of the city, so let’s go
to where it isn’t and
trace around its shape.
A blind man and a dog took the stairs at Union Station,
thought things over for no seconds on the lip between
the subway and the ledge. I yakked in your toilet
this morning with the shower on. It tore a hole inside
my throat and broke a vessel in my eye. The island
has a zoo and we could try to name the birds. I can’t
be much for animals, I wrote the draft of this poem
in a leather-bound notebook.
There’s two points of observation in the middle of the island,
straddling the village full of yuppies that complain about
the airport. This is the difference that matters between people:
those who want to make a study of the lake versus
those who'd opt to confront the city’s skyline. Get yourself
uncomfortable. On one side of the postcard:
tower and geometry. On the other side:
thirty names for blue.
And it hurts to be unsure, like it hurts
to know too well,
which side of the display was made for you.