It is a brave scene, Bryant Park. Trees with mottled bark mottled again by shadows surround the lawn. The sun and clouds swirl amorous. The library rises, a Victorian wall, on one side: a pedestal for the airier reflections of the buildings rising behind it. The wind has left New Jersey behind.
Three young white men, aspiring blue collar, sit around a table in hooded sweatshirts and say, “You ever get a key cut at Costco? Don’t. They fuckin’ suck.” A Korean couple sits nearby passing a cellphone back and forth, bullying each other affectionately. The girl, studying Japan, has dyed her hair brown. It falls in loose ‘70’s tresses. The boy, unlit cigarette in the corner of his mouth, is part hip-hop hood, part Jackie Chan in ‘30’s Shanghai. He wears a blue pork pie cap, silver watch, leather shoes, gold chain, t-shirt and hooded zip-up sweatshirt. And glasses. He harangues her, grinning. A middle-aged man puts his palm on the collie’s nose, and the glamorous dog stills. The man holds out a snack, the other hand still forbidding. The dog waits. Another man squats by the dog and shoots pictures. Something seems twisted here. But its the center of the world. Now all these figures are already gone.
This writing hand cannot keep up. Water spouts from the mouths of sea gods into the fountain and the air blows cool. Soon the sun will not be enough to warm these leaves.