come in every size and shape,
wiry and weighty,
jogging and mincing, plodding and sprinting,
in all colors and kinds,
female and male, younger and older,
all garbs and gear, footwear and headbands,
gaits and speeds, grimaces and grins,
in packs and threes and twos and ones,
chatting away or bound into ourselves
we go

                round

                                and round
crunching buff-gray pebbles, scattering splattered linden
   leaves,
running through autumn into winter light, barely
sighting Acis and Galatea surprised
                naked by Polyphemus in luscious marble
                                at the Medici Fountain,
spotting but never seen by blue and yellow children
                like Ferdinand and Isabella urging their boats
                                across the ruffled pond before the palace,
skirting benches along the periphery, ignored
by teenagers smoking and couples spooning but not
by a child at the north gate ( where I'd entered
and was earnestly
stretching tendons)
who asked her Maman, qu'est-ce qu'il fait, ce monsieur?