Whys

Whys

It’s hot here,

by the Flatiron building.

The breeze,

a convection of

hot city breath.

Conversations take place

amongst the flocks

in the streets.

Perspiration, a communal

wash, on high today.

My pen slips

through my fingers

as though

it’s annoyed with me.

The hanging haze,

forms halos

around an antique

streetlamp, its lights

burn in the sun,

two dirty orange orbs,

why?

It all conspires,

for the gain

of all my whys.

Shadows of flat timber

cook

in the sun’s flame.

The busses churn,

and the sightseers

sit along its scalp,

on their way

to ground zero,

waiting to witness

what’s not there.

Billboards bristle

with pitches

to the peds.

They sweat

and ride the day,

walk the dogs,

suck cigarettes,

and crowd,

within the crowds.

Next,

a large fly

crashes my lap,

he’s dizzy in this heat,

as if he knows

I’ll not swat him,

I don’t

and wonder why.

The mercury

breaks records,

my pen slips,

and I watch

the girls,

crazy what I think,

they seem to float by,

on the hems of all their skirts.

I sit here

as the day

lays open.

A girl stops

and asks me

for directions.

A bird, a tiny bird,

lands near my feet,

he stands by me,

looking with me.

What have I done

to deserve

all this attention?

Hot here today,

amongst all

the whys.

An errant leaf,

brown, burnt,

no longer living,

falls to my lap

from the trees looking on.

I set it safe beside me

because it chose

me to fall to.

Who am I

to say it didn’t?

Just another why.

Hayward 2006