These words, taken from my notebook, were supposed to flow effortlessly into a poem. I'm afraid that like the baseball player they didn't quite make it. I hope they are descriptive and capture the feeling of a lazy Sunday morning.
New York Poems IV (Lazy Sunday Morning)
I sit in front of a victory arch beneath a canopy of cherry blossom,
eating breakfast, as the park slowly comes to life.
Some dads arrive with their children, who play noisily around the water fountain,
a few people are out walking their dogs.
Park attendants arrive in a green pickup truck emblazoned "New York Parks Department."
They unlock the play area; the supervisor shouts orders and his team rush about sweeping and emptying bins.
I' m an observer; I observe and write in my notebook.
I devour my Mac Muffin and drink my orange juice, "produce of Florida" it says on the carton.
The children stream into the play area running towards their favourite activities,
the dads seek out park benches and sit reading large paperback books.
On the north side of the square a market is being assembled,
Chinese, Italian, and Spanish New Yorkers put up their market stalls.
This market sells the small joyous things of life,
there are T Shirts, Jewellery, Ceramic Pots, Candles, and great cauldrons of spicy
The shouts and laughter of the vendors rings out across the square.
Soon, families and lovers will arrive to saunter hand in hand amongst the stalls.
I take a ride on the subway and a short walk.
Standing by the Heckscher Playground,
I am an interested spectator, watching a game I will probably never play.
A group of middle-aged men are playing baseball, they whoop and shout like twelve year olds.
A couple of disinterested wives sit in folding chairs reading "Hello" magazine, their purpose is to
look after the food and keep the beer cold.
A guy walks up to the base, he is in his fifties with a big gut, and he wears a "Mets" cap.
After several goes, he manages to hit the ball some distance; he throws down the bat and runs.
In his imagination, he's making a home run for the "Mets," in reality
he's out of breath before first base and can't quite reach the second before the ball is returned.
The opposing team shout scornfully whilst his team offer condolences,
he just shrugs his shoulders and walks off the pitch. One of the women hands him a beer and a large sandwich.
It is time for me to move on. I have been in NYC for just fourteen hours, but already my imagination and my notebook are packed with images and observations. I head off towards Fifth Avenue in search of a coffee shop and the Guggenheim Museum.