You're in Brooklyn, a place of cruelty
in your youth, a place of probity
in your dotage. You sit on a bench
vacated by Jamaican nannies
under which portly pigeons nuzzle
discolored cheese on wheat squares.
Around you, kids, insulated from the stink
of commerce and contract by the odor
of rude commotion, are high jumping
to untenable commands, running toward
invisible rings of safety. The sound of a bus
incites the nervous squirrels. Twin bumblebees
alight on a dusty bubbler. The cohesion
of the day falls hard into vast contrivance.