Ambushed

The April sun grabs New York City
as I push Lily's carriage into the park.

This baby girl on loan for an hour,
has snuggled in after losing an honorable fight,
surrendering under heavy eyelids to babysleep.

I move Lily's carriage along the cracked pavement
so the sun will not hit her eyes, so the noise of the rollerbladers
and screaming toddlers will not penetrate her sleepy ears.

I look around wary of a sudden attack of wild dogs,
psychotic street people or an errant bee
on its own Darwinian journey thinking Lily

is a source of nectar, her tiny eyelids its juicy petals.
And so this park in Spring glory bares its teeth,
growls and crouches as

I make small adjustments to Lily's hat,
and the blanket that covers her,
lining up tangled strands of genes,

wondering how one survives
such an ambush and
its razor edged threat.