That lakeside park smell—
of jogger sweat
and hot dogs sailing
mildly on the mossy air;
we stop for lunch—
or maybe
just umbrella
stand tea somewhere
verdant in between
the strange alabaster of
pillared museums.
For a beat or two,
we each stop talking,
having balanced
our hollow bodies
so precisely on that
inadequate sliver
of sunbeam straddling
our over-examined
past—and
insensible future.
