The Parks Oh the parks of great European cities! Flat, green, dusty lungs by which they breathe. Everything ratchet, uncared-for, even The villas like bad teeth. Here is where The homeless find solace in being Able to at least say where they are. The Villa Borghese, the Jardin du Luxembourg… The fountains babbling to themselves In the middle of pools their words barely disturb, An over-steeped black tea of leaves That fell last fall, or the fall before… Bad as they need the money, the homeless Don’t dare reach in for the greening coins Lest they damage the wishes of the children Who tossed them. Pigeons totter around Like old ladies on their way home from church, Murmuring, “Hmm, hmm, let me see…” And the long avenues that run off Through colonnades of trees that are Somehow Roman even in Paris, The combed-over gravel gardeners In green shirts rake. The statues that Haven’t taken a step all their lives, They’re so lonely! Couldn’t they be moved A little closer to one another? But What do I know? Maybe at night They step down lightly from their pedestals And go walking arm-in-arm through The zebra-stripe shadow-and-moonlight. Before dawn, they resume their poses, Like a model who, after being taken To the painter’s bed, sits down again With difficulty, still atremble, so that The painter berates her, whereupon She quietens him with a scythe-like sweep Of her eyes, which, by the way, you can see At the Galleria or the Louvre, But that would mean you’d have to leave the park.
The Parks
The Parks
The Parks
The Parks Oh the parks of great European cities! Flat, green, dusty lungs by which they breathe. Everything ratchet, uncared-for, even The villas like bad teeth. Here is where The homeless find solace in being Able to at least say where they are. The Villa Borghese, the Jardin du Luxembourg… The fountains babbling to themselves In the middle of pools their words barely disturb, An over-steeped black tea of leaves That fell last fall, or the fall before… Bad as they need the money, the homeless Don’t dare reach in for the greening coins Lest they damage the wishes of the children Who tossed them. Pigeons totter around Like old ladies on their way home from church, Murmuring, “Hmm, hmm, let me see…” And the long avenues that run off Through colonnades of trees that are Somehow Roman even in Paris, The combed-over gravel gardeners In green shirts rake. The statues that Haven’t taken a step all their lives, They’re so lonely! Couldn’t they be moved A little closer to one another? But What do I know? Maybe at night They step down lightly from their pedestals And go walking arm-in-arm through The zebra-stripe shadow-and-moonlight. Before dawn, they resume their poses, Like a model who, after being taken To the painter’s bed, sits down again With difficulty, still atremble, so that The painter berates her, whereupon She quietens him with a scythe-like sweep Of her eyes, which, by the way, you can see At the Galleria or the Louvre, But that would mean you’d have to leave the park.