Washington Sqaure Park

Pigeons and Paupers

There are very fine lines sliding amongst the crowds.
Eight paths lead in to the centre
fountain pillar. Out of all possible paths
people glide
delicately balanced against both sides of
the reading, eating, talking,
graciously unstaring bench bower.

Their eyes bounce in earnest
from just above the ear of one
to just past the shoulder of another,
playing out the necessary fiction of
seeing without watching.

As if we didn’t come for this.
To note who carries a parasol, smokes a cigar,
whose dog loses fights with squirrels.
We feign interest in the fountain,
in the passing of clouds, in a rare glimpse
of distance through tree frames.

We barricade ourselves
between arm rests
and bags, food or a book
within reach to throw up against
someone who violates
sensitive zones of silence,
slicing through an accidental glance that
bumps up against another,
preserving the pockets of calm.
We sit armed with a purpose.

Softly and evenly they move.
Intentioned, sliding streams
of people tracing their legitimate presence
along the spokes of the wheel and out again.
Only tourists, children and madmen
take undue delight.

We’re all here to pretend to be alone.