There isn’t a day I don’t think about you.
Or seemingly a day. Almost a day.
Over the years, the mind becomes clouded
By shade, and remembrances so intense
They cloud each other, like pastel pinks and greens, red, and orange parades
and vermillions infused with bright lights
Or the leaves of Central Park, prefaced, obscured, illuminated
by children’s balloons, like floating pastel Thiebaud cakes
or rain, a light mist, obscuring even the clouds
the sky, the wonderful sights, even the carriages ambling by
slowly, deliberately, always, without fail, carrying with them
a message from God, God himself: this is for you, do not be afraid.
And now wandering, aimlessly, with no direction
only knowing that I am west. Oh west Central Park, Central Park West
where I am never lost, where the exits are near
Or rather, entrances, to the city, to Broadway, where I can walk up and down
getting a sandwich at Zabar’s, thinking of you
or, using the skyscrapers, walk east, down Madison, get offered skin creme, walk into cocktail piano bars I can never go with you to
To Grand Central, to search for you.
I saw you there once, among the throng. I was sure it was you
And saw the back of your head pass through the Great Concourse
during rush hour, at the break of winter dusk.
I searched for you, to come and touch you once again
For 15 minutes, amongst the magic of that place
my loneliness complete: if there was any place I would see you again
it would be there, would be here, in New York
Where myriad people are coming and going, where everything that could happen
would, only to realize
That it was not you, it could not be, because you are dead.
I now talk to your soul in Central Park.