90 degrees in Union Square

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It’s the first day that the temperature broke 90
and I find four men drumming and saxophones,
and a crowd assembles itself around while
the drummer wipes the sweat with a dark green towel
and the guy on the sax squints into the sound he
produces. People tap lightly and drop a quarter
here and there, until a child, a two-year-old,
a little girl in a pink dress with feathery blond curls
sprouting from her head runs up and stares in awe
pauses
     waits
          listens
and bursts into a dance of the purest kind of joy;
another little boy greets her with squeals,
takes her light hands into his darker ones,
and they dance without hestitation, without
knowing or caring if anyone watches their hedonism.
They squeal with madness as the sax guy chases them,
and in that time the people in the crowd forgot
the color of the skin of the person next to them,
or that the thief-in-chief is ready to take up arms,
or that my cheeseburger is getting cold and my
fries are wilting in the heat.
They have transported us,
and our communal hedonism is a flu
that no one got the shots for.

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