(September 2022)
Bloomsbury Park
isn't melting yet
in the plump heat
of London, late summer.
A locust tree
shows tendons
and bends like an
arm at the elbow.
The only birds
are pigions. Brown
plates of stone make
a center square
and we strangers
sit on black benches.
We're mostly mute.
Cornflowers persist--
the rest of the beds
are parched like a
hangover. On my way
out, one pigeon escorts
me to the gate. We say our
forms of goodbye. I wonder
if one of his ancestors
spoke to Virginia Woolf.
isn't melting yet
in the plump heat
of London, late summer.
A locust tree
shows tendons
and bends like an
arm at the elbow.
The only birds
are pigions. Brown
plates of stone make
a center square
and we strangers
sit on black benches.
We're mostly mute.
Cornflowers persist--
the rest of the beds
are parched like a
hangover. On my way
out, one pigeon escorts
me to the gate. We say our
forms of goodbye. I wonder
if one of his ancestors
spoke to Virginia Woolf.
The "melting" in the first stanza alludes to the famous/infamous Jim Webb song, "MacArthur Park," as sung-spoken by Richard Harris. "MacArthur Park is melting in the dark
