Matthew Gelman

I sit in the park and paint my nails 
but I keep messing them up. 
I paint some purple, some the color

of coins, until it runs on my skin. 
Like the end of winter, I'm trying. 
I'm no longer the boy skating

the river's long bone, or the driver 
holding his breath as his car
slews over the ice. I'm here:

this face I've run from but have, 
this face I've ignored, this face 
that's grown. And these hands 

throwing bread down to the pigeons. 
No warm red coat to return to, 
no father, no pink star drawn 

on my wrist. Only the pond 
broken open and the birds slowly 
expanding. I'm here: trash, fountain, 

almost-maples, my eyes raising 
to meet the sun, my eyes meeting
the dirty sun, the dirty, spinning sun.