MOROCCAN FLAME

It was strange, the look of the stranger

Elom walked and then waited,

then walked again

The nature of Hyde Park

fell open over his body

like a purse filled with flowers

A black purse,

the color of the night

The nip and chill of late January

helped him clear his head

He’d wished he’d snagged the place;

the apartment he’d seen last night

but it was a painful situation;

or would be

He listened to the park’s soundtrack,

watched the joggers beat pavement,

and home goers on their way home

from work

This, for him,

was an adventure of some sort

a slip out of the mundane

a loophole

because things felt unlikely

He started to sing a song

but then the birds got so loud

and promenent

that he began to wonder if their tunes

were coming from a speaker

hidden between the trees

He spotted,

beneath a lamppost,

a heap of berries

the color of a flame

Their hug to the green leaves

let him relax