recent observations, june.

mossy benches, velvet feet, and lists written in pencil.

Weekday sun-seeking from a park-bench office.

Flaking green paint furred with moss.

June eleven years ago, too tender to sit flat on these wooden slats,

walking in circles on this sun-dappled herringbone brick—

velvet feet hovering above my hip bones,

a sticky cheek against my sternum.

Young urban professionals are eating sandwich lunches

at the table where I nursed a newborn.

They’re chatting about their parlor floor apartments,

convincing friends to join them.

We’re taking over the neighborhood.

I twist curls of pencil shavings into a public park trash can.

For taking notes,

for making inventories

of what needs to be sold

or stooped before moving day.

Lists of everything

I need to let go.