To get to the park I wake up.
I get out of bed and go downstairs.

And put shoes and socks on, my shoes,
shorts and a sweatshirt this day—it's cool, not hot.

To get to the park I use the bathroom
I drink a pink glass of water.

I put on my dog’s leash, on her collar,
and a plastic bag in my pocket, an indication of Walk.

To get to the park I go out my front door.
and take a right on the sidewalk, our sidewalk.

I pass houses and apartments—my neighbors.
I notice Direct TV satellite dishes.

To get to the park I cross a main street.
I walk to a median, then to the other side and safe.

I pass Subarus for sale, and empty bags of fast food.
I walk to another corner, thinking about last night.

To get to the park I take a left, there.
Roadway not improved, the sign says and I read.

I walk up the sidewalk until it ends.
The gravel road, an overgrown alley seems to make sense to me.

To get to the park I walk three blocks of this.
It will be a surprise if I ever see another soul.

I’ll walk through stop signs, never needing to stop.
(Sometimes for my dog stops to eat some grass or just sniff.)

To get to the park I go through a schoolyard.
It’s like the park: it has grass and playground equipment, basketball courts and soccer goals.

But a bit further is the real park, the one I woke up for.
To get to this park you must get to the park.