A Love Poem: There Should Be

for us to walk in, where the sun lays secure as a stamp

on the blue envelope of sky, never budging

never saying "hurry" while the shadow of the hours

we spent strolling, hunch up behind us into night.

There should be gardens

for us to walk in, where time stands still;

politely holds the door; time enough

for everything that we might say to be said.

"After you."

"No, after you."

There should be gardens

where roller-skating girls bloom like weeds

bursting out of the cracks in the sidewalk.

There should be one park bench

that is hungry for an old pigeon-feeding man.

He scatters breadcrumbs like buckshot

frightening the birds and himself with his weathered hands.

Whose hands are these, he wonders,

creased like an ancient map?

Not his. His hands are soft and girlish

as his memories and as filled with regrets.

There should be one park bench

high-backed and wide enough for three lovers

to half-sit, half-recline

while they share a triple-decker ice cream cone.