I sit in the park and paint my nails
but I keep messing them up.
I paint some purple, some the color
of coins, until it runs on my skin.
Like the end of winter, I'm trying.
I'm no longer the boy skating
the river's long bone, or the driver
holding his breath as his car
slews over the ice. I'm here:
this face I've run from but have,
this face I've ignored, this face
that's grown. And these hands
throwing bread down to the pigeons.
No warm red coat to return to,
no father, no pink star drawn
on my wrist. Only the pond
broken open and the birds slowly
expanding. I'm here: trash, fountain,
almost-maples, my eyes raising
to meet the sun, my eyes meeting
the dirty sun, the dirty, spinning sun.