The Smile of Wallingford

Hello smile.
I didn't expect to
see you beaming
down the mossy cracks
of Sunnyside sidewalks,
past the ivy arms
of Good Shepherd garden,
right onto 2nd avenue
and up the stairs
on to this bird feeder porch.
It's so good
to see you
and be with you
if only for now
and not always.
This hot coffee,
this oven-warm brioche,
this lake blue sky,
this poppy petal smile
baptize my Saturday
in sunshine.
Now I can feel
the orbit pull of
Greenlake Park
reaching down
the asphalt veins
of Latona and 65th,
base coach windmilling me
around 2nd and out to
the 50th Street crosswalk.
"Come spend some time with us."
The shy russian girls
flashing those dark pearled eyes.
The chimpanzee squeals of
goose dimpled children
ice cube floating in
the red roped swimming beach.
The sad train harmonica
of the wooden indian folksinger
dime store mounted
in front of the paddleboat dock.
The sloe gin log roll
of the sun worshiper turtles,
craning giraffe necked
to watch the scullers
slice the plane of the lake
in half.
Hey smile,
we can stop off
at the pub
on the way back up the
stone sidewalk
and drink cold draughts of
ambered beer
poured by a pillow cheeked,
short-haired girl
with a crooked smile
and a true heart.
When the violet hue
of evening dyes
the sky dark,
we can sit
on the porch
while Howlin' Wolf plays
on the player
and ask each other
why we don't
spend more time
together.