poem on the back of a chinese menu on a saturday afternoon in washington square park

the blackbird breathes your sootsoaked air,
flying in twisted diagonals beneath the greenest
trees comprising your inimitable beauty.
the pigeon pushes pink feet to red brick with
hardened tufts of grass springing up between.
the humans seem happier here; there is one
who can be seen slowdancing to your silent song,
seemingly entranced until, stepping aside, stops.
the square sings soft, subtle lullabies, and those
who are lucky are lucky enough to hear them.