He stands there every morning, looking down at me with his stern uncared for face. He is so old. He is so unloved. His park is not a circle, but a tiny slab of smelly grass.

No wonder he looks at me like that. He seems mad and bursting to tell me of the injustice of it all.

Daniel Webster's park stinks. Sometimes it smells so bad that I wonder what poor dead thing is hidden in the bushes.

Mr. Webster's park has fruit-bearing trees. But they are tiny sticky stinky fruits. Sometimes I step on them and they go squash. When the fruit are in season, short old asian women fill huge plastic bags with them. I wonder what they are making them into.

I used to think Mr. Webster had a bird on his head, like molded into the metal or whatever. But that was just a bird who happened to be there everytime I looked. Sitting there, on the man's head, like a freakish live hat. But today, Mr. Webster was hatless, birdless.

Birdless. Hatless. Ceaseless.