Joggers float by,
arrogant or
truly happy
but the ones laughing are always in groups
and the scent of time closes up behind them
Speech shutters to silence,
silence to the hollows of nature,
and nature lasts until a Boeing trails a reminder overhead of where you are.
There is an ice cream serenade coming from a distant yellow van.
The man,
balding with Manhattan hair,
stringing to the earth fumes from mildew cans.
He doesn't fit well with the happy boink music
so he hides until the children arrive and alluring the innocence.
The circus music does that,
spinning,
the whistling trees,
the jet roar
The chattering, lonely families and the quiet joggers,
content in motion, content in sound
One boy has no money and walks empty handed from the yellow manhattan man's van,
Silent, alone and neutral in color.
Hardly walking now, barely stepping, stopping,
and whistling to the trees.
