This one day
I swear the sun moved
east. I was sitting under an oak tree
on Boston Common reading Williams
aloud to myself, gathering stares
like merit badges—sidelong glances
of brown-bag bank managers lunching
liquid at nearby tables, concerned
gawks of social activists scheduling
action, gaped-mouth mothers
muttering—when noon struck once
and shadows shifted west instead
of east, and noon was struck again.
