by Alison Fiebig
I will die in New York on a melancholy night.
Leaves will kiss my boats, and the wind will brush my sandy strands of hair.
The park will murmur its good-bye and the pond will reflect innocence back into my life.
The park passes, but doesn’t know -
How could it? It sends me on with the bitter tides of breeze and movements by the trees.
I think it will be Thursday like today, except the clouds will wither and stars will hum.
The shriveled, breathless dandelions will shake themselves of the endless ugliness.
I will kneel besides them, lean in and cry.
"It’s sad how no one sees past your ugliness," I’ll say.
That is how I know it will be a Thursday.
The dandelions will cry with me.