This is one of my earliest poems written in the late 1970's while I was a freshman in college. It (and its companion poem The Subway which I'll record and post next) is one of my darkest poems to date. My antipathy to the subject at the time comes from two sources: first, New York City was a much more dangerous place at the time than it is today, though, alas, it seems to be slipping back into the dark days of yesteryear of late. Central Park for all of its outward beauty was a very dangerous place at night even in Midtown Manhattan, and not necessaril;y safe during the day in many locations. Second, Central Park is not natural but a carefully planned, artificial construct no more natural than the skyscrapers that surround it. Ponds, hills, trees, rocks, pathways are all carefully planned, planted, created to provide a facade of natural beauty that replaced real natural beauty with a pretty mirage amid a concrete jungle. I did not and do not hate Central Park; I resented the artificiality of it and see it not as it is intended to be seen, but for what it is: an unnatural, manufactured lovely space that only further emphasizes the price we pay to live in large cities far removed from the state of nature our souls crave.