by Mervyn Taylor
The park outside my window
hasn't changed, except for
the trees losing their leaves
so now I can see clear down
to the lake, the number on
a green jersey running by.
It's election day, early lines
headed to the polls. No one
knows as yet that the villain
will win, that in spite of all
the ugliness, the terrible
promises they intend to keep,
he and his cronies will sweep
their way back to Pennsylvania
Avenue, will make good their
threats. But it hasn't happened
yet. It's still morning, and men
in the park are busy keeping
the leaves from spreading,
the trees having shed so
fast, I can see someone
curled up and crying
alone on a bench
all the way from here.
hasn't changed, except for
the trees losing their leaves
so now I can see clear down
to the lake, the number on
a green jersey running by.
It's election day, early lines
headed to the polls. No one
knows as yet that the villain
will win, that in spite of all
the ugliness, the terrible
promises they intend to keep,
he and his cronies will sweep
their way back to Pennsylvania
Avenue, will make good their
threats. But it hasn't happened
yet. It's still morning, and men
in the park are busy keeping
the leaves from spreading,
the trees having shed so
fast, I can see someone
curled up and crying
alone on a bench
all the way from here.
Mervyn Taylor is the author of nine full-length collections of poetry, the most recent of which is Getting Through: New & Selected (2024) from Beltway Editions. Trinidadian by birth, and a longtime Brooklyn resident, his poems link both places, like a steel band in Prospect Park, the location of this poem. Retired from teaching, Taylor also works in assemblage, and Carnival arts.
