is an old man sequestered on a park bench,
his loneliness a linen suit, creases
crisp as creeping moan of evening.
Nannies cast suspicious stares, steer charges away
while paper-thin teens in sagging shorts
point, laugh, know age will never sink claws
into them. Wary pigeons peck
at breadcrumbs he tosses like lost years.
My daughter, 6, spins circles in a field
of purple phlox, yellow Easter dress belling
like a tulip, strawberry hair wild, white stockings
smudged green at the knees. Ten years from now
when I hear the creak of a windowsill betraying
a foot sneaking outside, I hope I trust the sweetness
of her heart, think of today, see her approach the bench,
a ladybug in cupped hands cracked open
for rheumy eyes filled with wonder,
spring blooming on a face
lost in winter far too long.
(c)Bill Glose 2007
from The Human Touch
San Francisco Bay Press
San Francisco, CA
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