In the park, he lies on his back,
looking at the clouds mix like a menagerie of white salted taffy swirls.
Fluffy lines of ribbon slowly mixing together
and languidly pulling apart.
He lets blades of grass tickle his ear,
as the wind whispers secrets to the lawn.
Pedestrians and their canine counterparts sweep the grounds
searching for a breath, a scent, a quiet moment.
He giggles to himself recalling days like this,
when he was a child running through the park with his arms spread wide,
hoping that Mother Nature would scoop him up and let him fly.
She never did.
He hears the scattering ants on the concrete,
the gossiping birds,
the distant bass of a car radio spewing “Oye Como Va”
accompanied by the vibration of rattling windows.
His eyes squint toward the sun
as he searches for the hand of God
to reach down, tousle his hair
and say, “It’ll be alright, son. It’ll be allllright.”
Drinkers with Writing Problems 