In the early morning, 
in silence as sleek as black silk
and the day a low roar on a distant shore,
I dreamed I threw a branch of cherry blossoms
on the running track of the Reservior in Central Park
and announced, "This is art!"
as the runners running never broke their stride.

Thinking they must be right to ignore me,
I ran too.
I passed a car dealership where a daughter and mother 
are red in the face from running to the bank and back 
for money to buy a car after
the dealer threatens to sell it to
someone else in a minute if they don't put down cash.

On wakening,
I don running gear
and run to the Hudson esplanade and north beyond the pavement
to the end of a small dirt path.
I decide to cross the Parkway - six lanes of streaming cars.
In a minute, I cross the southbound lanes.
But the traffice north is so steady, 
I cannot cross for half an hour. 
From the median,
I search the faces of the drivers
for a single look of mercy --
a lone Hasidim man,
a Puerto Rican father with his family, 
pairs of Black youth, 
lone women glancing down absentmindely. 
Finding none,
I remember being stuck here forty years ago 
between traffic north and south,
hoping for a sign of angels in the sea of streaming faces,
and realize the hearts of the people in my city 
haven't moved at all.


			Brandywine
			5/6/97