The Park

a massive rock juts up in the park
like the claw of a slumbering leviathan 
sightless, I sit under it now 
an impotent king 
whose footsteps leave no echo

a marble fountain claims the park’s center
fronted by a headless statue:
a soldier, or a philanthropist, or a priest, 
or perhaps a pauper?
but weeds have staged a revolution
and wind has frayed his frock

a dead oak tree fragments the sun
there’s a carving dug into its bark
but ant holes have consumed their memory
the branches creak like old bones 
they bow for us 
as we sit in the cool of their shade 

we now just pose
headless statues
sitting under the massive rock 
that juts up in the park

© 2020 George Hloros
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