Jonathan Johnson

If I arrive at the gate, spent pen
in my shirt pocket, hands full of leaves
to return, the park will take me back,
no questions asked.  So the park’s existence
is a little like you living on.

There’s a day, four or five months off.
Far down in February’s dry wind twinkling cold red
radio towered horizon it waits,
rehearsing its warm breeze for my short sleeves,
readying sun for eyelids I’ll close in your back yard.

I stand watching children
until the bell calls them in then watch the swing
swinging on a little after they’re gone.
I have time to keep standing here.
I have time for you.

                                    --originally appeared in Passages North

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