Pretending: Albatross in New York
Among sirens, scaffolding, buildings stacked like impossible cakes
a man and his daughter are running.
Another man is yelling at them: Hey! Hey-hey!
The horses lined up along Central Park South looking bored
despite their show girl feathers, their bedazzled blankets, sharing
their feed with the pigeons on the urine-marked street –
they are pretending all of it is normal, that they don’t dream of pastures
green and lazy, their noses in buttercups, laughter
on the scented breeze, a screen door slapping closed.
Hey-hey! Hey! HEY!
The yelling man is more insistent, the man
and his daughter are still running in the other direction.
And the little dog, too, is pretending – pooping on the sidewalk
then making as if to dig, dig into cement with its back paws
like he is standing in the vegetable garden of his dreams,
dressed in dirt-black loam not this slab painted
with cigarette butts and chewing gum stains.
Heeeeeeeyyyyyyy! He is pointing now, singling out the man and girl.
People all around them are in motion, jogging out in front of taxis pretending
these would-be killers might stop in time if the need arose.
Pretending that waiting for a bagel for over an hour
is a logical activity, that the sky has not fallen already,
that that we are not all as alone as the albatross
sleeping while it glides mile after mile over open ocean
somewhere that is not here. Some species are endangered;
some are threatened; some are just vulnerable. Under the neighboring oceans,
nothing but fossils remain, the occasional wanderer.
A blessing or a curse, the ancient mariners couldn’t decide.
Pretending wing spans. Pretending interest. Pretending love.
Pretending any of it makes sense. I saw the news last night –
the threat could come from anywhere.
Hey-Hey-Heyyyyyyyyyyyy!
You dropped your glove!
Kathryn Petruccelli is a teacher and freelance writer, though her full-time job is pining for Monterey where she was a long-time resident. Her poetry has appeared in places such as Enizagam, red wheelbarrow and literarymama.com. Her essay “How to Read This Essay” won San Francisco’s 2015 Litquake essay contest. Kathryn holds a degree in teaching English to speakers of other languages from the Monterey Institute. She is currently living in western Massachusetts with her husband and two boys.
Among sirens, scaffolding, buildings stacked like impossible cakes
a man and his daughter are running.
Another man is yelling at them: Hey! Hey-hey!
The horses lined up along Central Park South looking bored
despite their show girl feathers, their bedazzled blankets, sharing
their feed with the pigeons on the urine-marked street –
they are pretending all of it is normal, that they don’t dream of pastures
green and lazy, their noses in buttercups, laughter
on the scented breeze, a screen door slapping closed.
Hey-hey! Hey! HEY!
The yelling man is more insistent, the man
and his daughter are still running in the other direction.
And the little dog, too, is pretending – pooping on the sidewalk
then making as if to dig, dig into cement with its back paws
like he is standing in the vegetable garden of his dreams,
dressed in dirt-black loam not this slab painted
with cigarette butts and chewing gum stains.
Heeeeeeeyyyyyyy! He is pointing now, singling out the man and girl.
People all around them are in motion, jogging out in front of taxis pretending
these would-be killers might stop in time if the need arose.
Pretending that waiting for a bagel for over an hour
is a logical activity, that the sky has not fallen already,
that that we are not all as alone as the albatross
sleeping while it glides mile after mile over open ocean
somewhere that is not here. Some species are endangered;
some are threatened; some are just vulnerable. Under the neighboring oceans,
nothing but fossils remain, the occasional wanderer.
A blessing or a curse, the ancient mariners couldn’t decide.
Pretending wing spans. Pretending interest. Pretending love.
Pretending any of it makes sense. I saw the news last night –
the threat could come from anywhere.
Hey-Hey-Heyyyyyyyyyyyy!
You dropped your glove!
Kathryn Petruccelli is a teacher and freelance writer, though her full-time job is pining for Monterey where she was a long-time resident. Her poetry has appeared in places such as Enizagam, red wheelbarrow and literarymama.com. Her essay “How to Read This Essay” won San Francisco’s 2015 Litquake essay contest. Kathryn holds a degree in teaching English to speakers of other languages from the Monterey Institute. She is currently living in western Massachusetts with her husband and two boys.
