and as another day opens on the park, the muggy heat rolls in with a hot wet force that drips down the faces of the denizens.
Dogs refuse to follow and bark against everything that moves.
Even the rats have taken shelter in their holes..
Old drunks call out mamacita as Latinas walk past.
The park settles in to a new weekend with its carefully subdivided zones
A morning rainstorm has left the grass too wet to enjoy and the thunder er
spooked the locals away. Only three poets remain, guarding the old typewriter The boy playing soccer with his Dad struggles to caatch and play the ball.
If that tall man with the mop of hair and accent isn*t ?Dutch, I*ll eat my
Gouda. I have been memorialized in a photo by some iPhone that has a
taken its first non selfie in days. A cop waits by the entrance to the
plaza silently pleased that the times have changed and there is no more
riot brewing in the streets aaround him. His partner trolls the other side of
the green with he lights flashing, as if chasing away ghosts in slow motion
aIt seems the soccer players have taken their barriers as goals.What was
once a unit of power has gone dormant, waiting for the next uprising to be
deployed. But the old tree stands resolute. No junkie, no yuppie, no
artist, can disturb its leafy canopy, growing year on year, (Did that Dad
just say the score is 45^2a?) So now, I venture on to treat my hunger