The Park

Pigeons flutter in the park
eating refuse from the grass.
Noon comes; the hours pass.
Leaves fall; the sky grows dark.
Silence reigns throughout the park.
A crumpled headline, a forgotten toy,
lifeless, do not hear a far-off bark.
In the park, not a single little boy.
Midnight comes; the hours go --
soon, the sky begins to glow...
morning breaks, and with it, sound.
White skeletons of benches -- slats --
in all the wintry parks of Age
fill up in morning. Deserted flats,
each with the aspect of a cage,
become an unused, waiting gauge
that measures dull and wasted years --
floods of loneliness -- rivers of fears...
In the park, begins the morning round.
The weak and battered, pallid crowd
which, daily, parks ingest,
speak in muted tones; but loud
is the message all suggest.
The clangor of the beaten Belles,
trampled in the slime of years,
entreats the mind to plug its ears;
yet, if it will, it hears...
memories, perhaps, keep active still
the shriveled and the loosened flaps
that are the mouths of all the Bills --
reduced to gray and ugly gaps...
Down the graveled pathways come
children bent on carefree play.
Belles, though silent, are not dumb,
nor will the Bills forego their say.
But warnings fall on ears too deaf;
around are eyes too blind to see.
And so the tots, too young for Death,
play on and on till time for tea.
Day after day after day
children come and children play.
Pigeons flutter in the park
eating refuse from the grass.
Leaves fall; the sky grows dark.
Once more, deep silence claims the park.
Midnight hours come and go.
The sky again assumes a glow.
The wind stirs dead leaves to rustle.
Starts again the aimless bustle
of the battered, weak, and infirm-eyed:
those whom living failed -- who died
but still must play their signal role
of unloved, friendless, unhailed Old;
who gather daily in the park
to envy tots their vital spark --
the hope, the promise in their eyes --
before it fades, before it dies.
But tots at play, both young and old,
must laugh and sing -- cannot be told
that youth's not long and Time is cold.
Time devours -- a ravenous beast --
and men are the courses at his feast.
Some he swallows in their prime,
some premature. On some he waits
too long a time: these rancid morsels,
Time's midnight snack, explore their memories.
They hie them back to that old moment,
deepest black, when they first dared to know -- and first said --
that Time's the master all men dread.
Yes, kids at play are bold and wise
with flashing smiles and knowing eyes.
They know that Belles and Bills say lies.
Time is but a birthday gift or new surprise;
more games to play; a windy day for a kite one flies;
coins that shine; toys that squeak;
a trip to the zoo at the end of the week.
But Belles and Bills persist in their story.
Some even mention forgotten glory.
Then Belles and Bills go back to flats,
to wait -- to wait till morning comes.
They listen to the rustling rats
and slowly sip their gin or rum.
Eyes are glazed; minds are dazed.
The atmosphere grows dim and hazed.
Children bore easily with grown up prattle;
their thoughts turn to cake and to toys that rattle.
Children go home to eat, to sleep.
Belles and Bills their vigils keep
til falling leaves and a darkening sky
shows them their truth and the children's lie.
Nothing's forever; all things die.
Then do they go; back to an empty room...
each suffering mad Cassandra's doom.
They'll await once more the sun's first ray --
the birth, in the park, of another day.
Before they leave, they look around,
surveying the world to which they're bound;
then, they shuffle away, with an air of sadness
at being, always, on the verge of madness.
The echo of an unheard bark
reverberates throughout the park.
Fallen leaves and a darkened sky
confirm the truth.
Children lie.