Walking In Central Park With You
Author's Note: this will be the last poem I'm going to be publishing on this site.
I want to walk through Central Park with you
Not as lovers
I’m suddenly too young for that
Now that your distance is far too great.
Even when we were in bed together you were two feet away
But miles out of reach.
That distance was always going to take
The form of a
Which you used to cut away your gravity
So you could drift through those waters of the gray seas
Of all your future plans.
Its 11:38 in midtown Manhattan
As I write you this letter
And already my thoughts of you
Have come in on the waves of my fear and trepidation
Which is usually kept at low tide by Prozac.
Your ghost is always white as snow drift
Not in New York where all the snow is black from the passing cars or the latest construction work.
More like Washington St. or Minnesota or Germany
Where they do a better job hiding their excesses.
Its not so unlike being at our apartment on Lehigh St.
Where you needed to be held tightly with your head pressed firmly against by shoulder.
Its true that the taste of coffee was not enough to keep you around.
What time is it where you fade into lightless theaters where all your indignities dance in mockery?
I wanted to watch your movements in the grips of troubled sleep
More than any film noir
Shown 3 in the morning
But you should have known that the body is borrowed and never owned.
It’s a rental with no option to buy.
We are all only visiting.
And where did you think you were going to land
Before being shit out by the wards?
Did you really believe that you were a Saint
Or think that you could tame the ascending wilderness
Which you feared would consume the idol of you name?
When you couldn’t even tame your own perfect skin
Or claim your body as your own.
Those anti-depressants could have tamed your indignities
before you embraced that fateful morning when you reached the end
Of your line.
Those flames of the incinerator licked your perfect skin and hair
As your body lay in the shadows of ruin
Which you perfected as an art form
Or a well planned assault.
I still think of the gray dust that replaced your beauty.
Did you think that you were going to get an applause
After your silent exit?
Those flames sent up smoke signals letting us know
That you finally knew when to leave.
That was you’re great escape
To avoid living the encircled life of a shut in.
Rooms after all can become wombs of
Dry wall and concrete if you stay too long.
And The flicker of the television set where you wept
For Doctor Quinn or Touched By An Angel
Became too bright
And your morning was never meant to come.