A string of parks connect, but streets are arterial.  Green does not last, black goes gray.

Early morning and dogjoggers shuffle their excrement machines through the city, and the jogjoggers too.  Cars are shiny, pretending not to pollute.

March is warm, a sign of the apocalypse, like weeping cherries.

Anyone who had a heart might recognize the signs.  I do not recognize the signs until they bite me in the face, already down.

Pit bulls, I have learned, mean rescued.

I place my helplessness into my intellect: a sarcasm machine.

Yesterday the happy city and I wore charcoal and huddled on a park bench, looking down. The world I want to continue, but am looking away.

A new plant just beyond my dark shoe, pushing up. Beyond the plant, dog mess.  Beyond that, the path down to the river.

The sun lit everything unflinchingly.

I admit to admiring Ophelia’s taste in flowers.

Panting, traffic, conversations, and wind.  My own breath and the sound I make when I swallow coffee.

A thing I will forgive myself for, like every other thing.