Saturday, in the Park

by Peter Manuel

This Librium-sodden soul stumbles through the park.
The fountain pools there, its vortex dark . . .
I envision my doped carcass mugged
And wonder if my thoughts are bugged.

To Becky’s for omelettes, the Java’s task;
The caffeine lifts my mood, but will it last?
Should I gorge on hope and pray to Mary?
Or is that relief just temporary?

Now Apollo’s bloody robe’s unfurled.
Roseate gulls hover, to survey my world.
God!  Why re-bind wounds in bloody patches?
When I dangle string, my Bobcat scratches . . .

I back-track Lincoln Park — homeward — emoting
Tomorrow the cops might find me floating.
Some disembody says, “Thy ‘stay or go’ conflict:
It’s like a nasty burn your pet has licked.”

But Sunday . . . I’m aware — the fountain’s brimming,
I’m not face-down at East End Beach; I’m swimming!
Why not choose to align, with this fine/
Alt-emotional-angst design?