Central Park
by Sid Miller

Twenty-six degrees
today and we walk
under these God
awful orange gates. The wind howls
and the scarves and hats
we bought on the street corner
are not enough.  My fever
is one hundred and one point three
and although some say it is spring,
I say it is winter.  I say, this is something
other than the way it was intended.
The skyline invisible, hot tea in our hands,
the flurry of snow that hits our lips
and melts, that leaves them wet in the wrong
kind of way.  I don’t think I need
to tell you this, Claire, that I am a man
who pretends he is God,
that this is not right,
that although you are beside me
and we hold hands while our skin
does not touch, that this is not heaven,
not here on Earth, at least not
the way I commanded it to be.


Sid Miller’s poetry has appeared or will in numerous places,
Margie, Goodfoot, The Comstock Review, Istanbul
Literature Review
, and Karamu.  A Pushcart Prize nominee, his
Quietly Waiting was published in 2004 by White Heron
Press.  He is the founding editor of the poetry journal
Burnside Review.

On “Central Park”:
“Central Park” came from a trip to Manhattan with my wife in
April 2005.  It was her first time there and I had so many things
I wanted to do with her.  Naturally, two days before we arrived I
came down with a bad case of the flu.  On our first day there I was
walking, feeling like I was near death.  I felt as if I had let her
down, that again things weren
t as they were “supposed” to be.

Previous Page    Apple Valley Review, Fall 2006    Next page
Apple Valley Review:
A Journal of Contemporary

ISSN 1931-3888

Volume 1, Number 2
(Fall 2006)

Copyright © 2006
by Leah Browning, Editor.  

All future rights to material
published in the
Valley Review
are retained
by the individual authors
and artists.