Tuesdays, out early, two frees in a row.
Sky so blue, walk past the bus stop,
skip through the park,
the reds and yellows
nip at the greens,
tell them it’s their turn to change.
Cross the bike track,
remember flying, back of Dad’s bike,
first time riding a two-wheeler,
his pushes, my breaths, how I pedaled.
Now, passing benches,
an emaciated, bearded man with a hollowed face
lies on one, propped up on full gray trash bags,
hands shaking—
I tell myself not to look.
Think of what Dad would do,
jog back, squish a dollar into the man’s cup.
His sign reads:
Homeless, starving, lost everyone.
Lesions on his scalp, his forehead—
like the skeletal men they show in health class,
unprotected sex, flashing at us, warnings.
I scurry away, eyes on the changing leaves,
Belvedere Castle, the pond,
kids chase their mom around the tire swing,
don’t look at the trash falling from bins,
don’t smell the urine on the rocks,
don’t read the SCREW YOU graffiti
sprayed on the old stone wall.
Look at the kids play,
look at the statues,
look up into the blue,
all those buildings framing the sky.
The wind picks up
as I get close to home,
it comes to me suddenly:
The yearbook theme should be New York City.