Kids from the suburbs
on a field trip
to the Park Blocks

parade farmers’ market
bunches of dahlias, 
strawflowers,
and the lance-shaped ones
that symbolize grief.

Crows dance 
for crushed hazelnuts
at their feet,
simultaneously amusing
and scaring them.

A thick head of foam
rises from the fountain
and weeps over
the dying bed
of Knock Out roses.

I unfollow my breath
and recollect the images
of the previous hour
in my cluttered mind.

We all share the same sky.

In any given day, gratifying 
our collective hunger
for lunch as a sport, 
a simple play for everyone
to sync up on a Wednesday.

I haven’t seen Wednesday
in a long time, or at least
not in this light, 
evenly balanced so
as not to betray
a warm or cool bias.

I think back to all
of our memories—
mostly just me, trying
to get through something
on the way to real pleasure.

What about the tension
between the clock 
and my body clock?

I’d forgotten my appetite
for a break in conversation
filled with sun atoms
and defensive laughter,
for the tepid broth
at the bottom 
of a cup of noodles.

What about the first-sip
smile on my face
hours after it happened?

What about work?

No, what about it, really?