The Companionship of Impulses

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When I leave

I will miss walking barefoot

on a rolling tide of Central Park meadow 

like Jesus himself high atop a very green Galilee 

I will miss moseying 

like a cane twirling

bow-legged 

Chaplin 

past the silent screen cyclorama  

of Eastside shops

I will miss being swept off my feet

by the invisible scent waves of that temptress pizza 

like a rubbery Dagwood Bumpstead 

into the waiting 

parmesan painted arms of Ray

I will miss greeting 

every dog I pass

like a returning war hero  

thanking them for their service

with a formal salute

I will miss the currency exchange of

a seconds-long smile 

with a passing  looker

who will disappear 

into the crowd of swells

like a film noir dame

armed with a shimmy and a smirk

I will miss the meditative stroll 

through the cornfield maze of Strands

in search of meaning

or for someone who simply understands

me

But most of all I will miss

the companionship of impulses

which in normal times,

sent me on adventures of enlightenment 

to towering cathedrals  and skyscrapers

which I have known

since I was a little boy,

are recovery missions

that have 

in their secret vaults

the remains of my long ago broken heart



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