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On my 55th,
the gate is swinging wide open
to nowhere I particularly want
to go,
O better to return to the Bronx,
to Van Cortlandt Park, where
dreams ran as big as socialism,
or as small as the Good Humor
man,
where I knew all the shortcuts and
could count on the Yankees, where
an eggcream could brighten an entire
day, and where I could do it right
this time around.
July 24, 2001