we come to the park, we should
paint our
faces and wear a costume,
i suggest to her
as we sit on a bench
in Central Park
drinking our morning coffee.
we need to fit in,
we look too much like tourists.
maybe we can sit in
on that circle of bongo
players, or
join that ukulele fellow
singing
Tiny Tim songs. it might
be fun.
she says nothing, but hands
me part of the Times,
which no longer even
has a sports section.
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