Heaven on Earth

Crumbs, seeds, who knows what they find
To eat in the unlikely
Richness of dust beneath the benches-
Small brown birds

At the edge of Copley Square this Indian
Summer evening, where men
In blue or gray pin-striped suits
Linger out in the air

Before heading home, briefly joining
The semi-permanent residents
On the benches, the seated homeless, and these
Anonymous birds that pluck

And pick among the half-transparent
Candy-wrappers and cigarette
Butts. The birds have oval-shaped
Black and dark-brown

Feathers traced in white, and their tense
Folded tails twitch
As they walk. A man who looks 70
But may be only 50

Tries to light a cigarette for what
Must seem to him forever
Until a dapper accountant (or lawyer?)
Leans to strike his match.

Now he can smoke as well as drink-
Vodka in pineapple juice.
He crosses his thin legs and braces
Himself upright on the bench,

Leaning forward to curse anonymous
Bastards and sons of bitches.
The warm breeze is soft to the touch.
On the other side of the square

Some girls are kicking a soccer ball
Back and forth in front
Of three deep Romanesque arches
Slowly filling with shadow.

From Stanford White's Public Library
A woman steps stiffly
Across the street, her quick head
Darting, her hand gripping
A small brown book. Would you
Like to read it, sir?
Do you speak English? Do you know you can live
In paradise forever.