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. The way we tell stories in America. He looks so peaceful. Like the middle of Spring. A man was running down a street. 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 good about getting out, Moving my body...