The Nurse of Spring

I am sitting on a park bench in the middle of Gotham
and there is a mother with a young daughter walking
by. It's windy, you see, and the young girl's hair
keeps getting in her face. The mother sees this and smiles.

She throws her arms out and her pink shirt gets carried by
the wind. "Let's get blown away!" She yells to her daughter
and they go running down the street, backs pushed by the breeze.

Ian tells me to check out the skirts, so I do. And I did.
A wolf in wolf's clothing. The city is warm and bright,
The Nurse of Spring. It heals us, and this place.

I hear no barking of dogs. Only clanks and trees
swaying. Yes, I said trees. There is a stillness to this
photograph and I think of calling you. So I do. And I did.

Punch-drunk, like the last day of school. We can say whatever
we want to, 'cos we won't remember in the morning. Halfway
through our conversation about dorm life and the importance

of a good thermos, I realize it's not you on the line.
And that's curious to me, but the woman is good
company. So I will sit on the park bench

in the middle of Gotham and tell stories. And maybe
some lies. 'Cos I'm not supposed to be here anyway.