Do Swans Get Jealous? (#2)

As I sit eating my bagel by the tourists in the park A sunning swan slips past all arch From neck to breast to wing to tail Pert in her bodice of sleek and white. The hot eyes follow Till a rubbish-truck arrives When a boy, not seven, in a shirt of livid green Pats through the flowers to interrogate the dustman And the eyes follow The dustman Red-faced in the heat, jawing with the grinning boy Pointing at the panting garbage heap. As I sit, the tourists laughing in their swelter, The sorbet white of the swan's intent Ebbs away with the shrug of one Who has too late noticed the sun's dark sweat.