SPRING BUDS

4 2 Y S P R I N G B U D S D A V I D B A K E R His might bloom, as a green thing will, or wilt with weather or the market’s temperament. He’s your trader, he’s your brother, or not your brother if you’re nodding there slouched on a cardboard flat beside the bookstore. Food, or coke, or weed, in that case, or sex, as his is the green roughage of money. And hers, who keeps pace with him, power-blue suit, Hermes silk, gym shoes, orating air, is likely money, too. And hers – ‘‘Buddy, this girl gets up early [pause] for no man . . .’’ – is renegotiating family ties. As all along the walk heads are bobbing, ears planted with their tiny buds, one, two per head sometimes, row on row of fertile dreaming (hers, lunch – his, who knows – his, dancing a funky two-step in a hat, says, grinning, ‘‘exercise’’). As what may grow is a field of hopes, given water, given sun: this cold city set to dreaming, given time, given money, or just a hint of song. ...