Writing In the Park

Sitting on an iron bench
At the corner of the park,
I look at the statue of Amelia Earheart
Holding up a propellor.
Should I write about
The racist kids who beat me up
When I was small?
Cars at the stoplight grumble and roll,
Drowning out my thoughts.
The sun is bright, but
A tree covers me with shade.
Should I write about that woman who fell for me
And trashed me when I couldn't fly
Around the world to see her?
An insect crawls across the paper.
A horn honks.
A man sleeps on the grass nearby,
His blankets and clothes in a shopping cart.
And what about those dreams of wealth,
And that golden statue, all that fame?
When will I see that?
The paper flutters in the wind.
I hold it down.
I haven't given up yet.
I'm glad to see
The yellow and orange carnations
Growing around Amelia
In plots with little fences.
I'm glad to feel
The cool summer morning,
Glad for wide green grass
And two dogs smiling as
They stick their heads out of a car window.
This is good enough for now.
I'll read this later
And be glad again.