A Walk Through a Small Park
My lady friend and I sit on stumps. When she sings
she rings the woods with a monarch's butterfly wings.
A crowd of bikers
on foot as hikers
in thick with woods
unsaddles moods.
Old ladies end up mothering
their men with woodsy mugs.
Men spot us and stop smothering
their ladies with bear hugs.
Sweat rolls off of one
of them; he's guzzling down
a beer.
As if a resin-thick secretion from a pine
tree mints us as the smell of fear, we toe the line,
my lady friend and I;
we're of two urbanites, our odysseys,
modest, gesture-frozen, trembling bodies.
My lady friend and I, a collective bower,
we shade the pedestrian biker
crowd with whom we ingress by sharing laughter.
Sweat steams off of another beer-guzzling hiker.
Metallic echoes from emptied cans kicked,
some hikers' alcoholic burps balloon
along the narrow nature's trail. The stench
rubs pine the wrong way. Branches burst the laughs
inclined to float over nonverbal
head shaking. We pinch our nostrils,
dodge smells from beer cans strewn about.
Breadcrumbs help my lady friend and I find
a pigeon-holed sunset sprawled across the skyline.
Head-bobbing caught up in waves of crowds approaching
the park, we make way for encroachments in the dark.
Copyright © Barthwell Farmer | Year Posted 2025
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