By Carol Tannenhauser

I met John Maynard, the 84-year-old poet who agreed to act as my guide, in front of the Dakota at 9 on a freezing-cold December morning. We were both bundled up as we headed into Central Park at West 72nd Street, past the Imagine mosaic, to the sounds of a pretty decent rendition of The Beatles’ “In My Life,” stopping to listen and applaud.

We were on a journey to find a man named Armando, whose last name we don’t know, who lives deep in the woods of the park.

Lots of wayward people sleep in Central Park; you see them huddled under blankets, beneath bridges, or behind rocky outcrops – transients who are gone by morning. Armando is different. He lives in the park. Year round. Somewhere in the woods on a hill is a flat rock he calls “my bed.” The park is the pl

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