AROUND LAFAYETTE RESERVOIR


        I.

Ah, California,
with your paved-path
wilderness half 
a mile down the road 
from Trader Joe's,

this morning I got on
the merry-go-round,
joined the parade:

joggers, walkers,
skaters, bikers,
people with their dogs,

those masses 
of walkers 
with walkmen--

even two people
with faces deep
in books, their feet 
somehow finding
their way. 

        II.

I think I've changed,
or "things" have changed.
I came here once,
oh, fifteen years ago,

and then I tried
to greet each person
whom I passed,

crossing at times
some microscopic 
line into flirtation

and judging savagely
the ones who would not
join me in my "oneness"
by responding to my words
or wave or knowing glance.

Now, a married man
and more secure in my
domestic world, my soul's
content to swim 
sunk deep in reservoirs 
of my own eyes,

and others, too,
seem settled
in themselves,
or in their 
little group.
 
Half way around 
the lake I greet
a couple whom I know
walking their dog.
The husband holds
the leash in one hand, 
a cup of Starbuck's 
in the other.

          III.

There's still the same 
chagrin and shame
I always felt, in spite
of knowing what
I *should* have felt,

when someone passes me-
in this case, not a jogger, even,
just someone who walks with longer 
strides then I. Vestigial
instinct leaves my psyche 
feeling that I've lost a race--

until I notice that a man
who's been in front of me
the whole way, who jogs awhile, 
then walks, has stopped to pee.

I pass him.
How childish is my glee! 
How humorous my childishness!
At least I laugh at me.

        IV

Finished with my
two point seven
miles, I sit
upon a bench
and watch 
the strollers
come and go,

imagine them
in gowns
and Easter bonnets:
"Sunday in
the park with George."

The geese honk,
water ripples,
and the breeze 
blows gently
on my cheek.

Ah, but I hear
my conscience say
my parking meter's 
time has slipped away.

It's just as well,
There's nothing 
more to say.