in New York City --

perched in my place on
the teal blue paint spot
on the green bench,
in Central Park,

i thought i was
another pair of legs--
and arms and face
meshed in a leather
Sargasso of briefcase,

when, passing along,
a man with Winter
in his eyes, and Autumn
in his beard, paused to say:

"M’dear --
you are a landmark;
every time I see you,
I know I’ve only one block
left to go!"

and fitted himself
back in the crowd
like an edge from a puzzle

as i, left discovered,
pondered what other
beacons never claim notice --

that, too, fear they’re
vanishing into sea?