1 Old trees like old men deeply creviced and gnarled brown like sparrows the surviving color I am haunted by Neruda by the act of poetry Every stone—is the first stone the first pebble gathered on the beach The suitcase of stones you carried halfway across a continent but you could not take it with you the life you found only a taste a lingering on the tongue 2 I am never alone in the park even in the early morning with my tea I bring my history the trees eat my sorrow the way my old cat bites my fingers gazes at me with her cataract eyes and releases me The old man almost opposite sometimes sleeps sitting up and shakes himself awake He works in the park carries his brown bag lunch to this corner every day to close his eyes and dream The brown sparrows who can survive anything and do a war a holocaust the crazy weather we have inherited and make worse the birds surround him as he nods off the sandwich in his hand they nibble at the crumbs as they fall The impecunious crow rags on everyone eats anything dives at the old man as he sleeps they know each other from before same bench same sandwich in a lost time they were friends Now the rough mean sound wakes him he shields his eyes a strong breeze fragrant with jasmine and pine caresses July 12, 2015 (Neruda’s Birthday) Union City, NJ
Hiding Out