The Millennial Pedestrian

The fall of 2005 was my last summer in Manhattan, so that must have been when I jotted down the notes that turned into this poem. Even after some revision, it is still more a journal entry than a poem, but now, two years after the fact, it brings a day back to me in a way that at least feels poetic.

Look around. Take note –  on paper — of what you see and feel. It may not be literature, but the day will come when you’ll be glad you saved those moments.

Central Park Indian Summer:
Notes to Self

Sitting on a bench with a book this afternoon
I drifted into a reverie about the way fallen leaves
smell just like cigarettes
but when I looked around I saw that a woman
walking her dog behind me was smoking.

Across the path two dogs were arguing over a stick
and sniffing each other’s hindquarters.
An elegant poodle sat by and watched them, with dignity.
It was especially not interested
in smelling the other two dogs.

I could smell gingko nuts. They’re especially rank this year,
so fecal-smelling it’s almost embarrassing.
Some say that eating them prevents memory loss.
Every autumn you see Asian foragers gingko-hunting in the Park.
The stench from the fallen nuts
makes the foraging process rather simple.

No leaves were burning but the air was hazy,
as only autumn air is.
Sunlight made inclined gauzy scrims
between and through the trees
and when it touched the ground
it cast long musical shadows.

The tobacco-y, gingko-y fragrance of fall
deepened my sense of hovering mortality.
I should re-read “Indian Summer of a Forsyte.”
I should listen to Mozart, or maybe Miles Davis.
I should forage for gingko nuts.