The Divinity of Impulses

 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 moseying —

a derby-topped, cane twirling 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 second-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 - 

temples of confessions and resurrection 

where the final remains

of the boy who danced

lies buried now

beneath six feet of moonlight.