Roger
Angell
My wife was game to change
direction when I wondered
out loud if you were the man
on the bench in the sun
minding his own business
beneath a baseball cap
contemplating yet another season or
daffodils and Spanish bluebells
blooming on Cedar Hill
enjoying the solitude of a fine spring morning
much like my long dead father basking
shirt off on the Sheep Meadow
simple respect, I tell myself, hastening us
across the 79th Street Traverse to the teeming
refuge of the Metropolitan Museum of Art.
