OF MARCHES

It is an unfamiliar
Itch, the grass
Against your forearms

You sneeze and it
Is Spring again—enter
Birds darting

Through their improvised
Grids, testing out still
Denuded limbs, a young girl

Tumbles clumsily
From her undersized
Stroller, Latina

Teenagers crowd the laps
Of their boyfriends on
Park benches as a horse strides

By looking mightily out
Of place, I mean
There is a woman walking around

Here with an eye patch, broken
Glass cascades across
The paths, a cop just stubbed

Her cigarette into the pitcher’s
Mound and if you think
I’m getting away

With a poem here, take
Another look, the wind has
Blown the vendor’s

Napkins against the backstop
Where a chain
Of motley kids winds

Past, their hands clasped
Furiously, feet jumbled and mouths
Open as sometimes

I can’t stop asking
Myself little questions
About the world and other

Times I stare
Into the blotched pink
Of my own palms

And run as fast as I can.