in New York City--
perched in my place on
the teal blue paint spot
on the green bench,
in Central Park,
i thought i was
another pair of legs
and arms and face --
meshed in a leather
Sargasso of briefcase,
when, passing along,
a man with Winter
in his eyes, and Autumn
in his beard, paused to say:
"M'dear--"
you are a landmark;
every time I see you,
I know I’ve only one block
left to go!"
and fitted himself
back in the crowd
like an edge from a puzzle
as i, left discovered,
pondered what other
beacons never claim notice --
that, too, fear they’re
vanishing into sea?