Footbridges are her chalkboard.
She erases the night
with her tongue. No spitting

allowed. If she could write
like you used to
speak, she’d drop

all R’s
(reading, ‘riting, ‘rithmetic)
to make room for one long

queue that snakes
along those unmarred banks.
But she just can’t do it.

Ten Seconds

At their best, these
poems are little love affairs—fireflies
bursting on a night 

scene to guide one solo walker
to another for a single
turn around the park 

and pause before
the old iron footbridge
to witness 

whatever the marsh north
and pond south
might offer up.

It Being March in Loring Park

Cattails mashed
and embedded
in what’s left 

of the ice shield
over the pond. Ducks
float in the free 

flowing water, other birds
hop along those complex layers
of solid. I see 

that same old wooden wagon
unhitched beside the iron
footbridge. The gardener’s back. 

I’m circulating
the park, making decisions,
walking on.