An Urban Park at New Year
Mary Ganz
It is the place where old men gathered.
Nearby, buildings issue up inside the scaffolds,
Golden faces slatted into burnished wood.
Dogs haunt the edges, memories of crust.
We build a shrine upon the windswept bench.
Are we to sacrifice our laughter.
Our little joke plays by the shopping carts.
We lift dry earth by shovelful,
then let it fall. Fences rise around us.
The Sower scatters shards in autumn light.
I run my fingers deep in warrior marks.
Just what do I yearn for in this life?
Surely god has put these numbers on my list.