Washington Square Park on the first day of Spring

Bounding, chasing, and flying.
Shouting, screaming, gesticulating.
Gawking, listening, prying.
Walking, restraining, barking.
Folding and shuffling.
Accidentally rhyming.
He doesn’t let the dog chase
The squirrel.
Hopping, sniffing, scurrying...

Brakes and birds squeaking.       
Voices and vehicles gently roaring.       
A child takes a jubilant solo       
And then a group of Chinese men       
Followed by a car horn.       
All taking cues from Chaos,       
Who conducts but can’t be seen       
And reads an empty score.        

One man disobeys       
This omnipresent maestro       
Unlike his patrons       
In the percussion section       
Dropping quarters into his       
Saxophone case.       
I bend my mind to his notes,       
Entering his sentimental Irreality.       
A beautiful woman yanks me back.       

The dissenter’s sounds       
Offend once again.       
Why interrupt       
The mating calls       
The mating dances       
The search for food?       
The crescendoing torrent       
Of technology and human vocal cords.       

The white-winged pigeon       
Tries to fuck the gray one.       
She refuses.       
He puffs up and coos.       
She refuses,       
But the squirrel’s got his nut.       

The mating dances of humans       
Take place above the waste       
On this warm spring day.       
Darting eyes, self-conscious eyes       
Reveal discomfort and pain.       
Saxophone plays.       
Wind blows.       
Wheels roll.       
The babies in their strollers,       
The dogs on their leashes,       
The people on their phones,       
The birds and squirrels and writer,       
And the man on saxophone       
In unending permutation…