*Thin like the willow
Grey as the dove
Quiet as the wind beneath which pesters the cat floats the wings and sweeps the city streets clean of debris
Dark as the asphalt
Soft as the paws
Lean like meat
Old like soil
And slick like oil as it drips from beneath
Shaking like the bedrock
The running water whips
Damp as the corners
And dry as your eyes
It slips
And where asphalt meets the mossgrown bricks
Corners are placed and worlds collide
And the man within is locked away
Within the metaphorical city street
Would the Central Park I know and love, return to me?
In all such glory
The Willow trees*