the subway poems: the last day of the year

This is my ocean

Everybody's selling something.
A painting. A boat.
A woman. A coat.
A Sotheby's life by the sea.
It better be me.

So this is my ocean.
This is my sea.
let's talk about emptiness,
'good bye old man, finish your tea'.

I had you tomorrow,
I'll lose you again.
I chose you from many
behind this glass window pain.

So this is my river,
this is my tree.
Let rainclouds shed tears for me,
on the road to Pondicherri.

Let's walk to the market,
and see what is sold,
what tales are told,
of Google and gold.

And what to buy, out on the street,
dot (.) com
when I step outside
one fine and sunny day,
on the Upper West Side
-the only side-
will it be a fancy new car,
that will take us far?
when everyone
around us is selling something.

I walk from the park.
I feel alive.
I write. When a man says
'Have a nice day'.
I hope I find my way.