The Dead End

This old poem, now revised, was based on a dream of finding a mysterious courtyard in Greenwich Village. Visiting Manhattan last November, I found the place that almost certainly inspired the dream and the poem. 

Far west, beyond the numbered avenues,

there is a street, accessed by a curious courtyard,

a peopled lane

where, lost on a moonlit but foggy night,

you seem to know the passers-by.

House numbers seem too high,

the street signs are illegible

but you feel recognized, and safe.

Each casual stroller,

each idling window shopper,

seems known to you.

Each, when looked at, imparts a smile,

an instant’s head-nod,

but then a pause, a head-shake,

implying: my error, I do not know you.

And then it comes to you—

the vague acquaintances,

childhood friends you moved away from,

once-met and nearly-forgotten lovers,

all of whom suddenly — or so they said —

just up and died.

You never saw a body.

The service was over before you heard.

The players reshuffled and life went on.

You never quite believed it, of course,

and now you have the proof:

the disappeared have all just moved

to this brick-lined street,

took up new names and furtive jobs:

caretaker, night watchman

lobster shift foreman

invisible cook in the diner kitchen

night worker in office tower

unlisted phone, anonymous
in a nameless lodging.

I found the street once, then lost it.

I’ve never managed to find it again,

can’t help but wonder
about those houses —

brownstones and bricks
backed by a high-rise tower —

whose windows were those
whose curtains parted?

whose astonished eyes saw me
and pulled away?

Wish I could go up and read
the nameplates,

knock on a certain door or two,

resume an interrupted dialogue,

give or receive an embrace

I’m sorry I never shared.

But all too soon

I’ll be there anyway,

an anagram, a pseudonym,

a permanent resident

of Incognito Village.