The Companionship of Impulses
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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