In Stuyvesant Square, pigeons stoop abject as dark crows
in Iowa City winter. There is a hospital which looms
behind, to the east. Its employees drink from green
straws a popular beverage. The grass has grown tall
the birds and squirrels scrape in, on dead brown leaves.
And it’s quiet women at a distance talking.
And it’s rosacea, the pink flowers at a distance.
Shocking, Dvorak’s hand has wilted unreciprocated.
In his arm a tome with black pages. In his eyes, black
cutoffs. The breeze dry and forgettable. The sirens gesticulate
their emergencies, their automaton affect difficult, yet
somehow polyrhythmic. Siblings pretend and mutter
to each other as their father flips thru a glossy program.
Perhaps Sunday is his day with them. They ignore him
but he seems content to glance sideways at their game.
This is a far from beautiful place. That is okay. There’s
no pressure here. Each of our businesses solely our own.
The flag is at half mast. There is something to mourn
each day unbeknownst to most.
1 handicapped individual.
1 small version of the flag affixed to their motorized chair.
