CITY
by jennmdean

coming down, that street corner sings
on Tuesday mornings when the buzz is still keen
and my one-over-the-other stumbles are painted perfect
in 6th avenue tar, climbing the benches and scaling small stone walls.

he sits. in a red hat, the birds adhere to his collar and cuffs
smiling, the seedlings draw themselves in patterns across
his spotted lap. a newspaper whips at his ankle, the old woman’s
obituary climbing to the front. he survives her. 

when he stands, my tarred heel print marks the seat of his pants,
and I chuckle at a distance, reaching him in a short, long pace.
34 dollar slacks later, and we will survive each other someday.