A man opens his briefcase to double check,
and a wind lifts the papers out of his lap,
tossing them over his head like hovering sea birds.
It whips a newspaper at him,
then flyers torn from lampposts, plastic bags,
a tablecloth from an outdoor café—
more paper covers his feet and the bench
and ground, filling the trees with white,
a cheap paperback; an advertisement
for Lily & the Rose floats in the fountain
—and delinquent phone bills, an infant’s
birthday card, a handwritten letter in Portuguese,
a photo of his twin, taken by Magnum—
he’s in a tuxedo, his arm around someone
cropped from the picture—and he’s not
young or old but it’s already years ago,
nor is he smiling but has a tiny
look of pleasure on his face—a wholly
uneventful thing—like the everyday
dull music of one’s own repeated name.