From Pelham Parkway Esplanade

From Pelham Parkway Esplanade


I sit on a bench
on the esplanade.
It's summer,
and the drowsy life
of green too green
and dried grass
fans out.
All the times
I spent here
slide in order,
like a powerpoint.
and even before,
as if  I'd been hypnotized
like Bridey Murphy:
Mom sitting with friends,
flirting outrageously.
Mom here with beaux
(I love that old-fashioned syllable.)
Great grandma with friends.
Grandma and grandpa
with neighbors.
Then it's the dawn
of my time,
and I'm in a carriage.
I'm older, being hit
by a neighbor's boy.
Older yet,
in patent leather.
Then it's onto Son of Sam
and quiet as my dear friend
guides us away
in case horror obtrudes.

And now.
after they've all gone,
I'm the last one
in the bus.
I flow back.
Like Edelweis,
the benches are glad
to see me.

And even missing
all the people
in my photo album
doesn't hurt
quite as much.