By late afternoon

I felt it might snow.

The crisp chill air

that breathed silently in Central Park

became sullen

as the

drop in temperature caused

a fed-up call girl

to smirk at me

and turn a cold shoulder

at my faded glory park bench

companion and I.

Studiously ignoring each other,

he in the middle

of humming a tune, repeatedly to

himself

as random messages and inspiration

were pulled from the ether

and the sound of a November night

in full swing.

Out of the corner of my eye

I watched the young Paul Simon

lookalike stand up slowly,

his own mind caught in perfection,

the right note playing in his mind,

his eyes glistening, fire in the forge,

he walked off

leaving me to face

the snowdrops circling,

ready to fall.

Ian D. Hall 2020