Sunny Overrated

    Yoga in the park begins with the dancing of the reverse warrior. They're followed by a series of lapsed gestures and the whipping of the spine. This is a mock spectacle, ripe with five-minute practice. Decent people have long fled the scene.

    I’m on the outskirts . . . an enclave, sitting on a novel bench grounded to a path unknown. Music drifts through the loudspeakers . . . a cover of something once foreign . . . likely an affluent white lady . . . a breast cancer patient, pushing false tranquility. 

    Instructors with loose skin teach the dim how to silence the schedule. There soft with lavish organic feed and false reverie starring bloated Asian gods. A spare man . . . bottle in hand, slanders them homosexuals. Eastwood can only grin.

    The overweight paddle the sky like seals on there backs.  I contemplate playing Where’s Waldo among the crowd, except replacing Waldo with a descendant of Africa. Where’s Waldo?

    Big breath in. Quick flash of a man’s nuts fallen from his short, shorts.  A child gaily trouncing dandelions.  Asian snaps greedy photos that fail the language. Sunny overrated. Exhale.

    I sit amongst an old man. This man tries to steal words from this notebook. This man knows there are no answers within. There are no answers without. A woman jogging . . . breasts bouncing, illuminates the meaning of the “Here and now.” We both turn and stare, vindicated, and ready for another go.