Submitted by Mark Tulin
I drift off in the quiet of the park where the rustling leaves keep me company.
I smell the meat on the burning wood of a fire pit.
I used to be hungry, now I just curl up in sleep.
Sounds of car tires spin on asphalt, peddling boys on bicycles churn their spindly legs,
traffic lights change from green to yellow to red for all eternity, long after I’m gone.
There’s a coo from a pigeon, a squawk from an agitated crow.
In the distance, I see a turkey vulture tearing up a defenseless squirrel.
I feel the loss of all the people I know.
The cycle continues with or without them, I guess.
The mushrooming gray clouds in the dusk hover over me like a warm quilted blanket
and at this moment, I feel safe.
This patch of grass is where I sleep.
About the Poet
In 2012, Mark Tulin got up enough courage to leave his therapy practice in Philadelphia and packed a few things in his Prius and headed to Santa Barbara to be with his future wife. Once in Southern California, he found his muse and has been writing poetry and stories ever since. He has published in the Santa Barbara Independent, Family Therapy Magazine, Smokebox.net, Fiction on the Web, elephant journal, Page and Spine, and Friday Flash Fiction. His poetry chapbook is called, Magical Yogis, and his website is Crow On The Wire.
Painting: Rind – M.C. Esher