Monday in the park. by Tim Purcell Lyrics

wind raw
huddled and trembling,
ragged men curl on wet benches
veiled in breath.

stiff fingers grasp
and slowly raise glass
with coarse paper
to moist reddened lips,
suck sweet fire.
below on the concrete
brittle brown leaves
swirl and dance,
swirl and dance.

A bronze hero
sculpted tall,
unmoving,
stands defiant
hard eyes wide in the wind.
ruffled sparrows
screech,
circle wild,
and seek still refuge
in the cold folds
of his greening robe.
then the clouds part.
A man in wrinkled wool
squints puddled eyes
and raises folded features
in the warmth
of the passing sun.