Poetry

My Ashes in Central Park

Forty years ago, they dowsed my ashes

On this path in Central Park.

Inside the ribcage forest, winter trees,

Leather glove, mask and meander.

**

They doffed the urn and left me powder puff

On the breeze under a fluffed snow sky.

I got lucky, clumped below the prevailing

Wind, sheltered in my shallow font,

**

From Nazis, loan sharks, crack killers,

Bob Dylan, spiffs and B52 carpet bombers.

Wives and lovers, mortgage and crap shoots.

Michael Jackson dressed as a Mormon.

**

Lennie Bernstein lived on our floor

Dancing the corridor in underpants-

‘Dut, dut, dut. Dut, dut, dut. Dut. Dut. Durrr.’

‘Petrushka?’ ‘You bet Schlombov’.

**

From my ditch in the park

The half moon faces of progeny

Survey my repose.

Curse the universe that they are.

**

Bloated on posthumous love, drinking my

Wooded barrel, ancient loch water

Sixty-year scotch, licking their chops,

Fondling my Steinway.

**

Take it from me, don’t make it easy;

*Leave no last will and testament.

*Cayman Island safety deposits.

*Behest Brooklyn stray dogs.

**

I knew these night walking paths

A yellow toothed stub smoking chalky fingers  

Fatally, it turned. Signs always there.

Cough, gas and night sweats.

**

At home in my fake forest,

Midst brownstone rubble, desperate for a pro

Pulling tricks after four, leaf litter fuzz

Congealed on my soles, 20 big ones in pocket.

**

Happy Holidays from the rattling cage,

Tributaries, rivers and creeks in sky.

**

I’m waiting for them, I’m waiting for you,

When the time is right, become the view. 

Photograph- Peter Maillardet (Copyright C Peter Maillardet)

This poem is part of a growing collection of poems prompted by Peter Maillardet’s New York photographs.