Central Park NYC

The park, the park goes there.

Smack dab in the middle of noise, the frenzy of a place not quite gone mad.

The center of the Universe has a sweet spot. A green sweet spot.

The park, the park goes there.

It goes in places where solitude can be found, where birds still sing and squirrels still scamper,

among the miles of concrete and yellow cabs’ honking horns.

Among the graffiti walls and homeless drunks.

The park, the park goes there.

It leads the way to romantic walks among the young,

It leads the way to chess games with the daily crowd of retired gray-hairs and unemployed anarchists.

The park, the park goes there.

It spreads its green among acres of Wall Street and drug deals.

It judges not. It censors nothing including free love and found love.

The park, the park goes there.

It takes you by the hand- the foreign, the friendless, the forgotten.

Stills your beating heart as you look up into its big sky,

Breathe in, breathe out. Scream or sing, it’s all fine.

The park, the park goes there.

To the fountain of fun and frolicking.

The stone bridge that gives cover to hot summer suns.

No stars in this park, except ones branded on billboards in Times Square.

Only in the imagination can you be where the park goes.

Only in imagination can you soar and see…

Where the park goes.

 

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About Victoria Yeary

Author Writer
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