Saturday. In the park.

Puppies at brunch show off for bacon.

A boy, beautiful nose, bleached hair, skates by. Stops. Waits.

“Can I bum a cigarette?”

“Do you smoke while you roller blade?”


Then, “Parliments. My favorite.”

A man, stinking clothes unwashed, rests by the fence framing the McDonald’s.

Then, “youlookbeautifultoday.”

Bikers chase cars. Cars chase time. Time chases all.

Children in wagons bump over the sidewalk, pinch the sunshine with their curious eyes.

Another man, laying on a bench in the park, streams “Big Shot” by Billy Joel from his phone and sings along. Beside him, his bald baby, rapt, watching.

Language can only convey so much. Sometimes it does just fine.

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