Strolling is good, it’s a good word,
walking with no real intent.
This will involve closing the door carefully.
Heading for the boulevard that defines the area.
It starts slowly, the tension,
a surreal anxiety that they are watching,
guiding, demanding every few feet
to do, how to do it, where to go—
STOP, No Right Turn, Detour,
and the most ambiguous, Yield.
What Freudian message is disguised
in being told to submit?
Make the right anyway in a difficult defiance,
enter the park, find a bench that smells
like the old wet wood that it is,
breathe deeply, recuperate somewhat with eyes closed,
hear the slight breeze as it barely
moves each blade of grass.
A ladybug on the shirt sleeve, bright orange,
black spots, staring—Mother had said it was good luck—
she would sit still until they flew.
Shorts inch further up the thigh,
ripeness of skin begs the sense of touch
to get involved and the texture overwhelms.
Anxiety turns to arousal but only briefly.
There is a need to orient, put perspective
around the afternoon, this stroll, the trek.
The realization that home is a retracing, no help,
back past the signs, the cars, the bus stop, others,
to the gate that represents the entrance to safety.
Therapeutic is good, it’s a good word, no panic,
no hallucinations, there is the fear of an underlying,
ruling party bent on power that is attempting
to control movement, thought, and direct all that matters.
This afternoon was good, defied the signs,
there was no detour, abrupt stopping, no yield.