Central Park Ramble

I enter the park at 72nd Street,
where Imagine is written in stone,
and wander down the drive, across
the old bridge, over the mist
that veils the other shore.

I follow the blacktop path,
to the fork in the road,
marked by a gnarled oak tree
clinging to life, its roots twisted
around a slab of granite.

Going to my left,
I see the gray walls of the castle
on the hill rise above the trees,
access to it cut off, isolated
by a cross-traffic canyon,

you can’t get there from here.

At the comfort station,
a guy in drag and a cowboy
pose outside the men’s room.

“Gotta extra smoke?”
“Yeah.” I oblige
“Need a boy-friend?”
“No thanks.”

They wait for somebody,
any body to cruise on by.

I wander past the out-cropping
of bedrock to the clearing,
a patch-work of shade, shadow,
and sun, spread over the carpet lawn.

Couples on blankets, picnicking,
snuggling, men and women, men
and men, women and women, someone
for everyone to move on and out
of the darkness, into the light.

I stroll by the boathouse,
across the drive, say good-bye
to Alice, Hans, and Humpty,
watch the sailboats slide
and glide over the reflecting
pool, and I fade on to Fifth Ave.
held down only by the pull of gravity.