Only if it's with you... my little ones... a poem.

Ode to Central Park, in the summer with people there.

Tanning banana shorts, rimmed with shades that

see beggar’s carts, just barely.

The kite strings attached to hands,

balloon painted cheeks.

Uniforms united, the parade.

We are all schooled by the reproach of men.

The path is gone, the wanderlust, the vagrant and the laundry.

Amidst the vacant stares the stars burst, a healthy paradox.

In the summer swelter, they found love at the closing sun,

On blankets.

The arched bow tied intrinsic laces to limbs, spider webs

hold each plank up covertly, to finish the mission.

Air is crisp with dead leaves, the frazzled masks of

Summer dog days, fade. School yards line the fields and lakes

 once plummeted with popcorn, peppermint twists,

frisbees and free catch and release at the hatchery.

 The water drips on cool wet Ipe,

 a reflection of a bridge, muzzled beneath droplets

of sediment draining into the bacteria and slime.

Balto is still burnished and fading, but not in nobility

The façade resists the stares from Alaskan Turnpike

The blizzard landed him here to chaperone

figure skates and sledding.  

Sheep skin moccasins in splish splash slush

zooming past the zoo entrance, gates still open.

Inside, squealing delight and camping from boy scouts.

No one knows what is howling, beneath the davenport.

The lost and undecided have no room left in the frozen.

Yoshino cherry blossom festivals open the yodeling.

They drop shores of offspring, pink and white star twists,

bronze crumpled lining erodes a carpet of trilobites.

The awakening nationalism with faded stripes has spoken.

 The sun is healing, stretching wings out of doves. The flittering glitter

sprinkles on hats and parasols and prams, no one notices.

There is too much excitement.   

Strawberry Lennon sprawled across the grass, where hippies serenade

the dead and the gardens blooming with life.

Beating drums accolade tandem bikes, the merchant’s village, and flags.

 Ugly Duckling stories, what about The Little Mermaid and

Thumbelina in June and July?  Pitter patter guests and the perambulator

commend grey hairs holding hands. The oddity of circumvent is indifference.  

What does the man with platinum bangs stretched upwards take? Can we all live on the

Scenic stretch?

Until next time, in the summer with people there. 

This needs help, yet oh well, maybe someday. I wrote this in writing class.