Wednesday, February 29, 2012
brown bag lunch on a park bench to the world
the sun sits, an over easy egg in the sky. the sky a little brown at the edges from too much time in the skillet. the skillet of mid day, and i don't remember what i had for breakfast. the day is passing too fast, forward, but jerky, stop motion clay-mation in the hands of an amateur.
the park bench eats divots in the back of my legs with fresh edges. i keep moving them, regaining circulation. a new bench, unworn as of yet, no one has slept on it, or not enough to create a cushion. pigeons amble in the dirt and grass in search of bread crumbs, their purple green neck sheen catches the sitting sun.
a man in duct taped shoes, low top cons, brown now over a darker color, lounges under a tree. the cracks of its bark pronounced, rounding knots, limbs once. his hoodie hood pulled over his eyes, hair spills around his stubble cheek, snarled and slick, tan, blond. his fingers carry yesterday in their lines, a picture, hung on nails framed in black.
kids slide and run back around, squeals of joy & laughter trail them, round. their mothers talk in huddles, pointing fingers, each word a gesture. new life swims inside one. a dog runs on the green hill behind them, loose its leash followed close by a man. running man, in a suit, afraid he'll be late for the future if he doesn't catch up.
joggers jog, rainbows in short slick shorts and stretchy shorts, jog black rubberized paths, so not to wear out the knees. a butterfly. bird song. bees. my brown bag crinkles as i crush it, jump shot the receptacle and sit, like the sun sits, just, shining, even though the rain is coming. flowers turn their heads, in secret wisdom.
My friend Mary, has challenged us at the Jam to write in repetition. While more pronounced in the opening para, i tried to weave some subtly throughout.