Observations from the Sculpture

I have trouble believing words will be sturdy enough for me. I have trouble believing I am sturdy enough for words.
(Replace sturdy with blunt)

There is a little boy reading the names on the memorial placards plunged in the lawn so close together. I wonder where his people are. Down the block, the yard in front of the Catholic school has plastic windspinners planted helter-skelter as if by a group of kids, so close together. There are hundreds of holes in the lawn at the front gate. "Aeration."




The black truck in front of me is stuffed with canvases, I know. The art museum renovation. They have to empty the art bit by bit, bleed the building. They go in that black truck. And, I suppose, eventually they come back.




A guy wearing all black (stylish) walks briskly past, 
two rainbow balloons wiggling behind him.
I am listening to a song that a boy who maybe used to love me used to sing to me.