Or, sea of meerkats
in the middle

of Times Square. No,
scratch that. Lawn

chairs floating
over a dying lake. Sentries

fold into their own
whispers. Who

will protect
the walkers from
the strollers from
those other

peripatetic clans? I’ve been here
before. Or, maybe not. December

morning fog dampens
and loosens my hold
on some bad lines

from a mediocre movie.
The title has already drifted off.