A Walk in the Park
BY RANDALL MANN
The palms along
Dolores Street
do not belong.
The past looms
like chat rooms.
At the top
of the park,
a fellow
suns himself.
(They call the hill
the fruit shelf.)
The view
from here
ruthless—
more or less.
We play a game
of name
the building
that was razed.
Ding, ding.
Downtown
off-limits
as a wish,
or noun.
The weeds
like all the right
wrong words.
Or none.
Swish, swish.
I’d trade
interest rate
and day trade
for clean-
your-house-
in-the-nude days,
and date the broke
actor days.
Urinal talk:
this is as close
as we can get.
Show don’t show,
and yet, and yet—
the city
part sunny
aggression,
part accent piece.
Rush, rush.
The smoke;
the dirt;
the sky—
I spy
the gospel
in the park,
septic,
lush as real money.
