there was a bench under a pagoda where mornings were spent…reading Whitman…devouring Ginsberg…the best minds of a generation destroyed by madness…

there was a peace… calm…far away from unkind acts…unnecessary verbage…only poetry…just words on a page as nature settled in for the day as nature does…

no judgements…no hard feelings…seeing Walt’s East River and Hudson roll before my closed eyes as feet lightly touched a soft ground below…oh Manhatta…oh Manhatta…

a Midwesterners dream…a teen’s angst…wanting to leave the bench under a pagoda….

and now wanting to return…