It’s about to be fall. Weather is good. After yesterday’s report that a young man was zonked on the head by a futon flopping out of a downtown high-rise window, I took to strolling my city.

Betwixt double-parked garbage trucks, permanently parked pedicabs and never-parked idling limos, sniffing freshly sprayed fragrances and year-old falafels, I dodged a little boy working a tricycle on the sidewalk and wriggled by a fleet of amahs pushing baby carriages.

Here a couple ahead strolled arm in arm. There an aide assisted a grandma. In between, an Oriental couple was talking Chinese. Cantonese or Hunanese, I don’t know. Not being fluent with either, I only talk it at home to the kids.

A janitor shpritzed a sidewalk. A floozy in a thigh-high skirt that showed all but her age raced past a wide-eyed boy on a cellphone.

A UPS guy delivered packages. A US postman unloaded a mailbox. A fire hydrant was leaking.

I walked over an upended container of popcorn and around a dog’s silent message. I heard sirens as a VIP convoy passed by. I watched a screaming firetruck. I made room for an ambulance in a hurry.

Off a temporary table, gold chains were being hustled. Touching them, they felt warm. Like maybe seconds earlier they’d hung on someone’s body.

A young couple in love snuggled arm in arm. An older couple looked less in love. He marched 30 paces ahead of her.

A man and woman stopped to argue. The man must’ve eaten onions for lunch because him you could locate in the dark. A parent balanced a small son on his shoulder. Two gays wheeled twins in a double baby carriage.

Foreigners with a map approached repeating only one word: “Bloomingdales.”

A socialite carried designer-label shopping bags. A man balancing a coffee container and bag of bagels dropped his stack of Sunday papers.

A dog walker with four Labs dodged a female signaling a cabbie that ignored her. A bum babbled to himself. A do-gooder hoisted a cardboard sign that read “Repent.”

There was someone in a wheelchair. A little girl hopped around sidestepping the sidewalk’s joined cracks. A small boy clutching balloons smacked into everyone.

I saw sneakers, boots, flip-flops. A biker in a sleeveless tank and cutoff jeans who thought he was Lance Armstrong sideswiped an elegant dowager transporting her caged parrot.

I pushed my Yorkies in a stroller since one wasn’t up to walking. Unused to furry ears, tiny tails and two 4-pound Yorkshire terriers gazing from a perambulator, a staring dude stopped to ask, “What are those?” Me: “What do you mean, what are those? What do they look like? What do you think they are — optometrists?”

A woman in sweater and muffler ate from a plastic takeout container. A kid in shorts noshed a pushcart hot dog. A meticulously dressed skinny matron sipped from a water bottle.

A lady watching her dog poop. A florist delivering. A tourist speaking no English looking lost. Two girls screaming at one another. A foreigner tweeting.

A few blocks down trucks, equipment, busy-looking bodies setting up, breaking down, hauling, pulling, pointing, instructing, rushing around as a camera crew barred streets for days to make a movie it’ll take a critic two minutes to trash.

On one corner, a slob leaning against a building. A tot running up to her mother. A man and woman kissing. A small-time celebrity to whom no one paid big-time attention loped by.

An unfriendly trucker shouting out his window. A doctor’s car blocking another. A cop instructing a mechanic to tow a Honda that’s parked there since February. A smartass yelled to its owner: “One way to avoid tickets — remove your windshield wipers.” An empty store closing up. A new store opening up.

A kid on a skateboard. A guy schlepping golf clubs. A housewife lugging groceries.

A zealot distributing political buttons. A drunk showing he’s drunk. An illegal polluter smoking. A party server at high noon hustling along in a tux. Exiting a hotel 8:15 a.m., a female in spike heels and tighttight lowlowcut cocktail dress flashing something larger than her bills.

I didn’t see Mommy kissing Santa Claus, but I did catch a rabbi chatting with a priest. And a panhandler who wanted five dollars. Five dollars!? “Yeah,” he said, “I want to quit work early tonight.”

A chalk artist sketching a portrait. Two uniformed soldiers, although who knows why they’re called privates. They eat with 500 others, sleep with 500 others, can’t even go to the canteen alone. In an area so quiet you could hear the overhead piling up, a bank with standees facing a teller’s cage marked “Next window.”

So how can we ever all agree? Most of us can’t even get together on whateveritwas Picasso was painting.

We’re Democrats, Republicans, Tea Partiers, Libertarians, conservatives, liberals, Muslims, Catholics, Jews, Buddhists, Scientologists, Seventh Day Adventists, those for abortion, those against, those who like the West Coast, those who love the East Coast, pro-guns, anti-guns. We can’t get together on clothing, on eating, on walking, on loving, on anything.

One for all and all for one? No, today we’re one for one.