night and the city

Stephens Green at evening.
There's magic in the park tonight.
A light mist of rain has fallen and the park is nearly deserted.
I'm ogling two leggy girls on an adjoining bench.
They're not afraid of the rain.
They're not afraid of anything.
A guy in a wheelchair erupts out of the dusk.
He cruises smoothly amid the flowerbeds and fountains.
He has three Jack Russell terriers running free in his wake.
The dogs scatter happily about the park, occasionally returning to their master to trot for a few seconds beneath the seat of his chair just behind the wheel axle.
They seem to consider this the pole position and compete for it merrily.
At times they are queueing behind the chair for a turn under the seat.
Their master, no doubt realising how appealing the scene he represents, pauses for a brief attempt at chatting up my leggy girls.
Getting nowhere, he whizzes off through the trees, doggies jostling behind him for the position of honour beneath his chair.
Yes it is a night of magic in the park.
I've just realised the ducks on the pond are mooning me.
A rough hewn tramp in a long coat emerges from the bushes and begins rooting in a trash bin.
I stand up and walk over to him.
"Holy God told me to give you this," I announce, handing him a twenty.
"Oh right," he shrugs, pocketing the cash and returning to his bin.
I wander off through the mists of time and fantasy.
If you had seen me this evening, gentle readers of the internet, you might have thought me a faintly shabby, faintly heroic figure, moving like a ghost through the park, unrecognised in a city that will one rejoice, nay clamour, to acclaim me.
Each man must be a legend to himself.