Cellular teamsters built calluses like white brick walls on my toes,
Mixed mortar and slapped it on with nonchalant expertise,
While the ballgame played on the radio,
During my series of afternoon walks

Passing through Bayside’s “affordable” area,
Treading over sections of sidewalk
That have been bleached by cherry blossoms,
I make my way to the unaffordable area, the park,
Where I once spotted a bird I’ve never seen before, all the while hoping
That the petals stuck to my sneakers fall off before I get home
Because it would be annoying to scrape them off the kitchen tile

The park is quiet with the sound of birds,
Randomly chiming, yet somehow always on-beat like jazz prophets.
The sky is a gray backdrop, protecting me against sunburn and
Drab enough to magnify the plumage of what I seek:
The red-headed woodpecker (according to Google images)
I limp towards the bald tree where I last saw the bird,

Hoping, like my cats who scream at my face at 4am,
It’s a creature of habit.
As I inspect each branch (either vacant or shelving a finch or an oriole),
It occurs to me I’m not glancing down to see where I’m walking,
Which I’m prone to do, my past peppered with tainted memories
Of stepping into feces or puddles or mud,
But my feet find no such parkland features;
I advance slowly, as if carried by a molasses flow,
So I may view each bough on each tree
In this particular section of the park,
Hoping if my eyes don’t spot him, my ears may catch
His hammering that I’ve thus far only heard in cartoons

But the woodpecker isn’t around today,
So I take my lap of defeat around the paved path contouring the baseball diamond,
Trudging under the heckling birds,
The bloodless sky,
Circumventing abysmal puddles
Tragically beset by inescapable plains of shoe-stealing mud,

And observe an old man, as crooked and stout as the wedge he yields,
Arcing golf balls into center field,
And how they seem like exotic birds as they soar—
Rare Guatemalan snow meeps: possessing neither wings nor feet,
Only a remarkably round head, which they rely on humans to transport
For their amusement and general getting around

After ringing the golfer with soiled cherry blossom petals,
I wind up at the beginning of the circular path,
Under the woodpeckerless trees,
And decide to return tomorrow to look for the elusive bird,
As long as it’s not raining,
Or at least say hello to the golfer.