Six Urban Love Songs

I.  Central Park

Can one think, in sunglasses, in the park; think

with the children playing and the adult banter,

and someone smoking; and experiment, in ink,

through the invading dogs, and toddler-gallivanter—?

escape the Ice-cold-beer-and-Snapple hawking

and the ones who target you when you're alone,

and so they stare, or come over, talking?

But how can I (who've been rather accident-prone)

forget it was just that dappled fate-and-chance—

and perhaps the shade of arrogance—

that brought me you?  and though I tried to shake

you off ("Don't bother me; I'm mean, I'm grieving")

the discouragement didn't seem to take—

so I came to accept that you weren't leaving.

Then I'll let these clowns distract me with their dance—

there's a weird wisdom in persistance—

I'll stick to my mount of grass and moss and clover,

writing things down, and thinking things over.

Kate Light

From The Laws of Falling Bodies, Story Line Press, © 1997,
co-winner of the 1997 Nicholas Roerich Prize.  Reprinted by
permission of the author.