THE HAPPINESS ON THE OTHER SIDE OF HAPPINESS
(Seward Park)
Kids swing and old men sit. That’s the way
we do it at the park. A division of tasks
right here where Division ends
and Canal begins. Sit in shade, if sitting
is your fate. Try not to be afraid,
even though you are not someone
of this world, just visiting here
where two bridges cross a river.
Four teenagers, on the bench opposite,
are getting stoned. “Fuck that,” one says
and they all laugh. You do not, any more,
get the joke. Sparrows and ravens take turns
in the sycamore. The boy’s t shirt says,
“City Loser,” his face, sweet and nervous,
wanting so much to find something funny
which he might use for cover.
It was good being born, but this thing
about going down is another kind
of happiness. Meanwhile, the girls on the bench
are getting still more stoned. “Oh, my God!
one says, as she looks up at the sunlight
in the leaves which is a miracle
she suddenly sees she is a part of.
But the other girl doesn’t look up.
She continues playing with her hair
as if it is a complicated musical instrument
of her own making,which she has mastered
over many years of practice.
You will sit here long after they leave
until the day finally begins to close down,
because after so much light
the darkness, too, is beautiful.
LAST DAY
Say what you will, I stayed
as long as I could. I was often alone,
but not lonely. I was sad,
but not only.
The mountain barely visible in the distance.
The sound of the neighbor’s voice, for once
not angry. The two bells
of 7:30 a.m. Now the woman,
two doors away, who coughs
is coughing again.
From now on in this life,
every day a last day. Suddenly,
it is August again. Heat
turns the sky purple,
a deep bruise. Even if it heals
everything will feel more tender
than before and more helpless.
