Washington Square Park.

Aside from the spectators,
children in play mode,

and afraid-to-ask of panhandlers,
there’s a show tryin’ to go on.

Within these seven stages, there’s
this demonstration of practice and patience
that some may mistake
as just a park of performers.

Not so.

I’ve found my forth-dimension,
one that showcases an

imagery unattainable
by three dimensional lens

or capture in the space between
the lines of a poet’s words.

This is where I will make my bed,
either tucked

beneath one of these skateboards,
next to the human helicopter,

or between the guitar riffs
of the street performers

performing in the
first president’s honor.

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