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Central Park Ramble
by Peter V. Dugan

I entered the park at 72nd Street,

where “Imagine” is written in stone,

and wandered down the drive, across

the old bridge, over the mist

that veiled the other shore.

I followed 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 saw the gray walls of the castle

on the hill rise above the trees,

access to it was 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 obliged.

“Need a boy-friend?”

“No thanks.”

They were just waiting for somebody,

any body to cruise on by.

I wandered 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 strolled by the boathouse,

across the drive, said good-bye

to Alice, Hans, and Humpty,

watched the sailboats slide

and glide over the reflecting

pool, and I faded on to Fifth Ave.

held down only by the pull of gravity.

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