Burgess Park



Sitting On A Bench In The Park On A Sunny Day

A book in my hand, I observed
the geese
Ambling over to me by the bench,
Hissing.
A row of pointed teeth.

Sprays of water shooting 
up
Glittering drops falling on
sensible ducks.
They cut the water as they swim.

A man sat on the bench
next to me - in his hand
a notebook.
"Do you come here often?"
he asks.
I question my instinct.

Ravens caw loudly above,
a whole crew of them
circling the area.
Black against the yellow sun.
I look like a foreigner, an
artist.

It is the man, he has said so.
My metal badges clink as I
retrieve a pen from my bag,
my metal badges are my
foreigner's label

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