From Pelham Parkway Esplanade

From Pelham Parkway Esplanade I sit on a bench on the esplanade. It's summer, and the drowsy life of green too green and dried grass fans out. All the times I spent here slide in order, like a powerpoint. and even before, as if I'd been hypnotized like Bridey Murphy: Mom sitting with friends, flirting outrageously. Mom here with beaux (I love that old-fashioned syllable.) Great grandma with friends. Grandma and grandpa with neighbors. Then it's the dawn of my time, and I'm in a carriage. I'm older, being hit by a neighbor's boy. Older yet, in patent leather. Then it's onto Son of Sam and quiet as my dear friend guides us away in case horror obtrudes. And now. after they've all gone, I'm the last one in the bus. I flow back. Like Edelweis, the benches are glad to see me. And even missing all the people in my photo album doesn't hurt quite as much.