Where Was It?

I sat by the pond to read — or was it the lake?

Some whisper of water that the crowds flock to, reliable as birds.

I found a free bench, shooed the pigeons from my feet,

and attempted to read a passage or two,

some Hemingway — or was it Roxanne Gay?

-

I could not keep focus,

as an undeniable force latched itself to my back,

and made me an unmovable feast.

I turned my head, but the masses kept their gaze on the water,

I looked toward the city, and a hundred eyes looked past.

Alone amongst strangers, I returned to the author, who, in great pains

revealed their hunger — or were they famished?

-

A prickling, like the ocean breeze, disrupted my novel.

The salt of a body tickled my own,

so I turned, quick and unsteady on the park bench

to reveal nothing more than the seagulls grazing.

Eyes, a thousand eyes in the city, and not a single one locked to me.

I scanned the grass, but the birds hardly blinked.

My shoulders rose, my heart quickened against the cool air,

a haunting was occurring, and no one else seemed ot care.

The undeniable truth of being seen — or was it abandoned?

Came crashing like waves upon my shore.

And so, I snapped my head back

and the water was gone.