He died in January, the smell of winter
by Lisa Zaran
will always remind me of him.
The teeming scent of rain on asphalt,
nevertheless I have learned ways
of stepping in and out of myself.
The back door I created leads out
of my head and into Greenfield park.
I am an example of self-pity as I flop
myself down on the grassy hill
that overlooks the playground.
Even children are more sophisticated
than I am. Sociable animals, they
fight and play, always forgetting
from one moment to the next why
they were just crying, if they were sad.
The groundskeeper in his earth brown
jumpsuit blows leaves off the walking path.
The janitor rolls a cart of cleaning supplies
into each toilet stall. Father and son fish
in a man-made pond.
The park for me is not a workable piece
of escape, I can't live here, I keep finding
things wrong. The children are too exceptional,
the sunlight too bright.