The Frog Pond

That's the wading pool In Boston Commons. The benches are green and hot Under the midday sun. The pool has been drained. Waves of heat rise from it, Making the tree trunks wriggle As if made of gelatine. From out of the shadows A man appears. He is in his thirties, clean-shaven, Wearing a grey pinstripe business suit, And a power tie, carrying a brown leather briefcase. He puts the briefcase on a bench, on its side, Takes off his jacket. Carefully he folds it inside out. He is wearing yellow suspenders, Bright against the blue of his shirt. He lays the jacket on the briefcase, Unbuttons his collar, And pulls at the knot of his tie Loosening it a half an inch Or so. He stares at the jacket For a moment as if receiving Final instructions. He turns and walks briskly into the middle Of the dry cement pond. He turns again facing his approach. Hooking his thumbs under the yellow suspenders He begins to sing loadly. “He rocks in the treetops all day long, Hopping and bopping and singing this song . . . “ He sings 'Rocking Robin' all the way through. He messes up a lot of the words. He walks back to his briefcase, Puts on his jacket, And quietly walks back into the city