Beetlebung and Kettlehole--April Poems

In the Park

Some perch on benches
shadow-warmed under the trees,
watching fountains
spout up and down
on green grass and kids
to make shrieks born.
The pier reaches
eight hundred feet over the sea,
and I walk on water
with the wind at my face.
From the stone gazebo,
the sounds of a sax swoop
upon us all, their spell spiraling.
An old man in red
breathes the blues
into polished brass,
sober from a distance.
Ever so grateful, I want
more of this music, and
there is nothing else
I'd rather do than
lean on the railing and listen.