Central Park Poem by James Browning Kepple

Sitting by the pond we debate the need for fishing poles
as the singing mackerel breaks through the bubbly muck
and we hear but short snippet of song, she takes off her
knee high knits, collapses in the grass, I remain in haunch,
indian style going on about hostels and babys mommas

for her father is dying in vegas
behind the dusty flop ascend of an italian pizzeria,
and I dont want her to go to the desert.
I want her to move in with her socks and paints,
I want to ravish that crafted beautiful skin,

moments as they may be sad or not meant to be
exist here, near the water and the leering eyes
of a man voiced woman, spouting out about hows shes
gonna give me a ticket for drinking beer, I finish it off
and tell her theres no more left, how bout I run to the store,
come back, and then we'll talk,

but we never will,
and these moments are as disposable as cameras,
glass bottles and carrot juice,
so we rise freshened by the breeze,
saunter off back into the wild
clasping our faith, a mango sorbet in the wind

and I hug her six times to the subway