City Squirrels

As a cab nearly runs over a squirrel
in the street near Central Park,
I notice all the clusters of leaves
strategically placed in the tree branches
with the diligence of survival.
We too scurry around the city
from place to place—
Penn, maybe Grand Central,
to the subway and through the streets
to find a small Italian place on 57th.
We take a cab to cheat time
to our reservations before the show
and pass a homeless man
building his nest for the night.
While we spoil ourselves,
free to come and go
from the island to the city—
he rushes to find and collect
leaves, cardboard boxes, and plastic bags,
forced to create refuge from refuse
while we talk over dinner
about design places for our second home.
Blocks away and hours earlier,
the beats and bulls waved papers frenetically—
some snatched, some crumbled, some fell to the floor—
the mess of garbage created;
for some, savings lost;
for others, toilet paper gained.