Wearing New Glasses on a Saturday Morning

I can see the whole of hazy Brooklyn, every square
of bleached orange fencing on the elevated  train
that takes me from here, every leaf dabbed on the trees.
Of course we seek a maker, any other search ignores
what's obvious and everywhere, the gulls strung in the sky,
the scrawling script of street art, the single baby mitten
on the sidewalk. Kids on the train practice counting.
Tourists chomp on gum anxiously, pale painted faces turned
up at the map behind plexiglass. The little girl, untired,
still counting, this time eating every number, chewing.
To imagine they go on forever. If I can teach just one kid
about infinity I will be a happy teacher. The tourists with
painted faces show their teeth, big white blocks of teeth in a smile.