< a visit to the park >

   From the Payne Whitney Psychiatric Clinic
   beside the East River on the Upper East Side of Manhattan,
   it's seven and a half blocks east to Central Park.
    
   Which, today, is where I'm headed.
  
   I put on my yellow coat, walk south a block, and turn onto 67th Street
   so i can stop by the 67th Street Branch of the New York Public Library.
   I'll turn in my books, go to the park, then get some more on the way back.
  
   Where 67th hits 5th Ave there's a memorial to the 107th New York Infantry
   Regiment.
   During the Great War (World War I) they fought in France.
   Of the 3,700 men originally in the regiment, 580 were killed and 1,487
   were wounded.
   Four of them were awarded the Medal of Honor.
   From there I turn up 5th Ave and head into the park.
   It's seven short blocks north.
    
   Just a block below the Alice in Wonderland sculpture
   and beside the Conservatory pond where they sail model boats;
   there's this statue of Hans Christian Andersen reading to a duck.
  
   This is my place:
  
         sitting beside Hans Christian Andersen
         I look out on the pond
         out on the water and all the model boats
         that seem a mile off sometimes
         when it's early and there's a mist over the water
    
         I look out on the pond
         as the sun glints off the water
         as the boats glide through the water
  
   Christian Andersen and his duck.
   I wonder how many of the men of the 107th,
   in their trenches over there in France;
   how many of them, while they waited, remembered his stories,
   remembered their mothers as they read to them:
  
   "The Little Mermaid"
   "The Emperor's New Clothes"
   "The Princess and the Pea"
   "The Ugly Duckling"
  
   Standing in a trench during the Great War
   Standing there
   Remembering your mother reading you "The Emperor's New Clothes"
  
   No, that's just me being sentimental and ironic and symbolic.
  
   They were probably thinking about French whores.
  
   No, that's just me thinking about French whores.
  
   Though, since they're all dead, who's to say different?
  
         such a beautiful day
         such a beautiful park
         as the sun glints off the water
         as the boats glide through the water...
  
   But I'm thinking about the men of the 107th,
   their dead bodies strewn across the fields of France.
   (And French whores.)
  
   But, just in time, Hans and his duck save me:
   They snatch me from the dead of the 107th,
   they return me to my rightful place:
  
   On a bench near Hans and his duck.
    
   I'm watching this woman in a red coat feed popcorn to the pigeons.
   I have my bench, Hans has his duck, she has her pigeons.
  
   She's this Monet painting:
    
        "A woman in a red coat feeding popcorn to pigeons in Central Park."
  
   New York City
   Central Park
   pigeons
  
   here
   at least
   the world makes sense
  
   then the woman in the red coat gets up,
   walks over,
   hands me the half full bag of popcorn,
   and walks off.
  
   So here I am in my own Monet:
  
        "A man in a yellow coat feeding popcorn to pigeons in Central Park."
  
   After a while I get up,
   walk over to this woman in a green coat writing in her journal
   (she's been watching me).
  
   I hand her the popcorn,
   she tears a page out of her journal,
   folds it,
   and hands it to me.
  
   As I walk south I look back at the painting:
  
        "A woman in a green coat feeding popcorn to pigeons in Central Park."
    
   I continue to walk south,
   I think of the men of the 107th New York Infantry Regiment,
   I think of the books I'm planning to get at the 67th Street Branch of the
   New York Public Library,
   I think of the Payne Whitney Psychiatric Clinic sitting beside the East
   River,
   And I think of popcorn and pigeons and kids and tiny sailing boats and Hans
   and his duck... and French whores.
  
   As I continue to walk south
   I unfold the page the woman in the green coat gave me and I read it.
   It's this poem
   word for word
   (except for the French whores)
  
   I fold the page
   I trip over a curb
   and then I see him:
  
   A man in a blue coat.
  
   I hand him this poem
   (still lacking French whores)
   and as I continue to walk south I look back at him,
   it won't be long now:
  
        "A man in a blue coat feeding popcorn to pigeons in Central Park."
  
   red, yellow, green, blue
  
   here
   at least
   the world makes sense
  
             - - -



(The painting, "Self-Portrait in a Yellow Coat", is by Aurél Bernáth)