Marie Taylor, Ink

A grey man in torn jeans rearranges the contents

of the shopping cart to accommodate the cardboard box

that served as his mattress during the night while he waits

for the woman in a raggedy skirt who emerges from the port-a-potty

and opens a gaily striped umbrella.

Holding it aloft she sings softly to herself

as they leave the park to start their day.

Black boy, pants at half-mast, do-rag round his head,

stands beside the hip hop van

that sports low rider wheels and dice on the dash,

and greets a member of the hood

who arrives slouching and bopping and snapping his fingers

to the booming bass that smites the air

as they share the secret tribal handshake.

Leading the way to the duck pond,

Grandpa totters as he holds the hand

of the curly-haired girl whose small shoes

blink off and on at each hop and skip,

while Grandma follows, walker clacking,

step, roll, pause,

step, roll, pause.

The little white dog leashed to the large white woman,

is tugged and pulled from enticing smells,

then waves its feathery tail and tosses its floppy ears

that are adorned with lacey pink ribbons

while an old man whose shining knees peek shyly

between his Bermuda shorts and nylon socks

briskly leads two toy poodles across the field.

Three young boys striding down the path,

arms swinging, feet marching, purposeful in direction

are passed by a young hipster wearing white pants

that cling precariously to the ledge of his buttocks,

who bebops across the field, shoulders swinging,

fingers snapping, toes tapping, his ball cap angled just so.

Too cool gotta’ go.

Two golden retrievers, walking in unison,

jump into the back seat of a small white car

bearing “Go Kings” stickers –

and as it drives away two big orange heads

hang out of windows,

ears back, tongues lolling,

tails waving

goodbye.