“Boston Common”


by Sam Buntz


everybody’s pants are wrinkled

a toddler puts his hand against a tree for support

meanwhile, a juggler unleashes a geyser of primary colors

a man with thin ankles, grey socks, and four blonde children
between the ages of 5 and 13

the well-dressed immigrant couples

a black teenager with a cast on his right arm, socks and sandals

the sun-and-snow-pinched faces of siberians

female keyboard player in an abbey road t-shirt—the athleticism of her arms—

the drummer in a jamaican rastafari hat—all asian (except for the flautist)

runic tattoos garland neck-lines

white lanky sugar daddy with young blonde girlfriend
her pert buttocks somehow nearly independent of one another as they move

the pathways are disheveled with miracle

handbags awkwardly caressed

the bass player arrives in a big bootsy collins hat

pale soles held loosely to flip-flop foam

little kids flap around enthusiastically to the ascent of bass and drum

just one green leaf comes my way

the directionless gazes lost in a million pairs of sunglasses

tired cyclists and skateboarders stop on the too weedy hillside

someone with a back cramp slows her step

a double-decker stroller with babies sleeping—
content, small loaves of ham

a little boy screams at an eager, fountain-drenched terrier

the ease with which women wear jeans that tight—their deft, even modes of conversation

not too many big American guts—but there’s one

she fakes a drink and interrogates the taste with raised eyebrows

girth that concentrates above the waist and on the mons pubis
split by a belt’s protest

the juggler teaches a kid who sends red and yellow flashes scattering

the music thunders up – jugular questions

asian girls in floral-print dresses – smooth ideals, invincible plaster-casts

a mother’s tightly approving smile

the long socks, the flowing nehru jackets and trousers,

tubular trunks, salmon colored shorts, pink and grey

the terrier’s tail still wagging, his amiable ratty-ness, energy unabated

black pony tails, extravagant black sideburns, black shirts scrawled in sumerian code, black laptop bag, black shoes, black glasses, blue eyes

a thin east indian in a cowboy hat

people walk over boston common in flip-flops, shower shoes

middle-aged man with his family—wife puts a pink flower in his ear—

he grins, feeling stupid, and embraces it, leaves it in

a flimsy neon-pink see-thru that could, on its own, on a rack,
stop and direct traffic

intervals in the crowd

slick black hair, greek letters, and a rosary

a foot cast and a small birthmark

isolated in an ipod, a smartphone, and a tall iced green tea

the disparities between women and the men they’re with—
better looking women by far

eating an ice cream sandwich, she regards me


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