A casual glance to my left
I am left watching the sun rise lazy
beyond the horizon
and up drafts the wind,
spreading oak leaves at my feet
a few get caught in my hair.

A casual turn of the head
and you’re not there.
Probably jogged past the bench where I sit,
into the grove of oak, sycamore and ash
lining the black top walkway
that winds through the park.

I pretend to be a nature lover
but I can’t wait to get back to my Fifth Avenue loft
eighth floor, a good view of the greatest city in the world,
the one that never sleeps,
home of the Babe and Billy Joel.

I pretend to have a purpose here,
amid the autumn foliage and bored water fowl,
who chatter nonstop among the waterweeds and lily pads.
I wish I had my Tylenol,
the headache, caused by too much fresh air
throbs beneath my temples,
behind my eyes.

This is devotion,
spoken in a casual pose
on a park bench near Strawberry Fields
in the middle of November.

I choke on my devotion,
wincing behind designer sunglasses
huddling down, stooped,
trying to conserve body heat
and I’m not even sure if you’re coming.

The thought
that the numbness may not be worth it
and the fear that I will find myself
frozen here until spring thaw,
makes me hate myself
and regret my fixation.

The brooding contemplation
that you might have slept in,
or even overslept
and that you may not come,
stops my breath for a heartbeat.

But then I hear the labored panting
of a hardcore jogger
pushing his limits
day after day,
pounding up the hill and over the rise
and my doubts fall away
as I catch a glimpse of your face behind the collar of your parka
and I know that I am not so foolish
as I thought.