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
