Man’s Personal Godot

Inner-city parks wedged between

lower income housing

supply the non-income housing

for parkbench-souls that know only survival.

Sleeping and waking atop

a park bench gives Man a special view,

a chance to gaze upon late night

and early morning secrets,

all that tries so hard to be unseen,

unheard,

unfelt.

Screams, cries, occasionally the sound of a broken bottle,

become transparent memories of Man

as he places a bagel scrap beside him on the bench,

luring the bushy-tailed friend to share some breakfast.

Tis a good morning to watch, eh, Squirrel?

Crunch.  Crunch.

High up the housing wall,

curtained windows refract a purple dawn

of hardship waves back to the bench.

What you think, Squirrel?

Another person stayed up into the wee hours

waiting for his or her personal Godot.

Takes a lot of faith to trust poverty’s hidden messenger of good news

is coming.  Right Squirrel?

Within this canyon-confined early-dawn

the silence of secrets hangs in the air

as they do every morning

even as the distant waft of bakery ovens

come alive and pigeons take to the sky,

beginning their cooing for breakfast crumbs.

For a few more moments,

everything stays on hold,

waiting for the cacophony of taxicab horns,

jackhammers of Con Edison,

and the proverbial street cleaner brushes

sweeping assorted residue from another night’s secrets,

the bits of sound, images, smells

and detached feelings that haunt souls of defeat.

Man sighs a faint smile

as from a window across the way,

Woman’s favorite pigeon struts across her

windowsill awaiting the angel cake

offering from the all but hidden personage,

save for her aged arm.

Nice lady, eh Squirrel?

Crunch. Crunch.