Buffer Zone

I track a red fox
through smiling black faces
posed on the steps
of St. Michael's
a frail white woman
rocks back and forth
hands shaking
voice begging
for spare change
like an animal
startled by winter
I walk on
by a body
wrapped
in newspaper stories
of bombing in Gaza
and Bernard Madoff
paces his Park Avenue
pent house
as I track
the red fox
down onto the three
a Lebanese clerk
on fourteenth street
tells me
that in Beirut
only Hezbollah
wear orange
I say
I wear orange
so I will not
be shot
tracking red fox
in the northern
reaches of Central Park
where a coyote lingers
in wait
and all that is left
of the light
of the day
is the moon.