a memorial

a three-legged butterfly alights on my jumper in the sun-drenched graveyard of three thousand souls. Advertisements

Sunday

A saxophone plays in Central Park, New York City. A warm breeze blows like an armistice over boulders and across wild grass, carrying birdsong –¬†one among myriad languages that pop and fizz around street vendors beneath their umbrellas. A mustard and ketchup smile spreads over my face. Everyone is themselves, And I am me, And…