Lost between the jigsaws of
west side horizons—sparrows
convene parliaments
in its watercolor bushes
and greedy bees haul around
their gold underneath, while the
centerpiece jungle gym's
polished aluminum skin glints
from maroon to bright
red in the afternoon sun.
Near its goofy green water feature,
one child laughs, and another
starts weeping; and a third one's
head begins nodding, like the heads
of those roses out on the fringes
being tussled just a little
by the rakish lake breezes. Now,
conscientious new parents begin
motioning for strollers, produce
snacks in Ziploc bags
or another layer of clothes
for their imminent nappers.
And somewhere out beyond the
decommissioned water tower,
an old song starts playing,
someone in a nearby loft is
practicing the saxophone—or
else running the vacuum cleaner
or just maybe—singing something
about how life is just
a bowl of cherries—or was that
last lyric: a baggie of cereal?
