Five minutes before the concert begins.
I’m sitting next to some old guy—
even older than I—
and ask him some idle questions.
Does he live nearby?
Oh, did he walk then?
I walk that street, I know his view—
right on a little public garden.
Nothing fancy, and yet delightful.
I picture the spring newlyweds
posing for photographers
before beds of tulip and daffodil
or under the bridal canopies
of cherry trees;
billowing picnic blankets kept
from flying away
by babies, set down like paperweights . . .
but I don’t go into that; he knows it.
It’s wonderful the city supports it
is all I say.
Oh, he says, the funds are private.
Or they are now. Didn’t used to be.
Really? It turns out he was chair
of the garden committee
for years and years
and he had it on authority
nobody else who worked on the city
budget had been aware