Sunday in the Park by Ben Passikoff

Bird graffiti scaped the land
of Bronx. The beauties walked
stab-heeled, with summer thighs
sirening slow-motion Romeos
from the wrong side of the moon
strolling in tortoise tempo -
though fish-quick with
the flash of knife to flesh -
who loll in dog-tongued
Taiwan sneakers.

                               Still undoomed,
the maidens of the pavement
offer sisterstrong in effigy
the lips of plum, and tuned
knee tendons in harmonic motion,
and fingerwhispered hair.

                                The Romeos,
a touch away from together,
accept ritual, condom-conscious;
the girls, colibri-still
though uncaressed.