The Players In the Park

The Players In The Park by Edmund Siejka An errant breeze slipped in Somewhere from the West Village Caressing a couple As they walked out of the park holding hands Shoulders touching Running her fingers through her hair She stopped to look up In return he smiled His arms bringing her closer Their lips meeting. Nearby, the park musicians called it a day Tired, the old man carefully put his violin back into its case Next time they might try something new Perhaps something from Verdi’s Aida Leaving the park, he passed Our Lady of Pompeii Hurrying across Carmine Street He adjusted his cap Before making the sign of the cross. Overhead, a rainbow orange sun slowly dipped beneath the City’s horizon Transforming a warm day into a cool September evening Weekend crowds Started arriving Loud and boisterous They swarmed the streets In threes and fours. Walking home he worried The crowds at the park were getting smaller The young never had time for opera But why did they make their lives so hard Just to push ahead? The old man had no answer Holding the violin case closer, he knew one thing for certain For him another long day was over.