this space is too short to tell the story.
necessary words rush horribly
over the boundary lines.
into space, uncharted waters.
a second grade student
struggles to form a capital G.
this is how it goes: slowly and with feeling.
i watch a park at rest lose leaf cover,
at one with the season, the weather, the fitful wind.
rain gathers in the tide pool warpings
of old picnic tables.
grass grows and dies and grows.
the park’s existence tells its story
perfectly: history and identity through
mine does not. mine becomes,
in that way conversations do between strangers,
about the convenient, the artificial, the safe.
anything but doesn’t schmidt’s
serve the best kuchen doesn’t fit here.
and isn’t washington a mess these days?
seems like this line is always the last
to get repairs; there’s always graffiti,
tears in the seat cushions.
desperate: do you follow baseball much?
belabored: how long have you lived
in the city, and where were you before?
really. you don’t say.