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This morning in Central Park, while walking with my dog, Sam, I ran into poet Robert Cunningham, and he handed me his poem:
I, New York
Wall Street my head
Broadway my heart
Subway my veins
My food is art
Alas, you say
Where is your sould
My soul is Central Park
Whenever I meet him I think that, but for fortune, he could be as famous as Robert Frost or another of the poets regarded as great. Instead, he’s another of New York’s wonderful characters. Always brightens my day to see him.