The sound of an ice-cream truck, Down the hill at St. Nicholas and 135th, Harlem. I sit way up at the top, Don't worry, Roomie, Far from anyone. You're the only one I don't talk to, Nowadays. Little dogs, Cloth masks, Like this is permanent or something. Someone asked me if I'd been writing, I said, I've thought about it. Even that felt like a lie. It's so beautiful and calm in the park, today. It feels untouchable. Sacred. References to the color green. Like that painting. A young man lays on a rock with his shirt off, Several feet away. He looks so peaceful. Quiet. Small. Is it important to mention his race? It's the way we tell stories in America. He looks so peaceful. Like the middle of Spring. Ahmaud was running. Exercising two days just before his birthday. Just before Mother's Day. I can imagine running down a residential road in Georgia, It just sounds peaceful, Open. Feeling goo