sorry man, our parks only come in 60’x40’ size
i was walking down the street the other week when i approached a man. he was meandering like an ant on the sidewalk, squinting this way and that. from his hand dangled a strap attached to what appeared to be the same shiny material that pizza delivery sleeves are made of, except it was loosely folded up into a completely unidentifiable flumpy box. he was wearing an aquamarine polo shirt with pink and tangerine lines across the chest. gray hair, gin blossomed face. when he saw me coming, he seized up and moved off to the side, waiting. i was about to be spoken to by a stranger.
“’scuse me, do you know if there’s a park up around that corner there?” he asked, pointing behind me. “i’m looking for a park with a strip of grass about 100 feet long, maybe 28-30 feet wide.” he squinted at me expectantly. it was difficult for me to tell whether his scrunched-up gaze was an attempt to corral two lazy eyes or just a habit borne of dozens of years spent staring into the sun.
“um,” i stated blankly. following the direction of his hand, i turned around and stared up the street, as if the horizon held the answer he was seeking. i tried thinking. park. a hundred feet. grass. it all sounded so familiar; a dozen vague memories of long ribbons of green dashed through my mind. he waited.
“i think so,” i finally told him, unconvincingly. “that’s what i thought!” he nearly crowed, appreciative of my vague affirmation. “thank you very much, ma’am.” and on up the street with his mystery bag he went.