ON THE BENCH, GREEN

moss climbs the steps

the fat woman sits and dries her hair

sultry the heat slowly cools

spring grass thrives by a pond

on a bench the mechanic draws on his cigarette

half the day’s labors slip free through air

the willow rounds to a songbird

noon, the secretary lifts her burger,

tilts back her head, scanning the gaps of tall buildings

for the shadowed flights of birds

her eyes the color of grass

the typist restarts the slow computer

her steel-grey heart awaits the tremble of tender leaves

how green ascends one’s clothes