The Divinity of Impulses

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When I pass beneath the Greyshot Arch,

bound for shadows and sleep,

I leave behind

the song of the unsettled heart,

and enter the stillness —

stone and river deep.

Even so,

I will miss walking barefoot

on the rolling tide of the Central Park meadow,

like Jesus wandering the fringes

of an Irish-green Galilee.

I will miss my moseying —

a cane-twirling, derby-topped Chaplin —

sailing past the silent cyclorama

of East Side shops.

I will miss being lifted from my feet

by the scent of that temptress pizza,

falling into the waiting,

parmesan-coated 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 disappears

into the crowd of swells

like a film noir dame

armed with a shimmy and a smirk.

I will miss the stroll

through the cornfield maze of The Strand,

in search of meaning —

that  breathes in the belly of books

But most of all, I will miss

the divinity of impulses

which, in ordinary times,

sent me on adventures of enlightenment

to cathedrals and skyscrapers —

places I have known,

since I was a little boy,

are recovery missions:

places that hold,

deep within their secret vaults,

the final remains

of my long-ago broken heart.


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