When I am sitting at my desk and I have feelings It is like I am the lone passenger in a little boat On a sunny windy day. When we are lying down And we have good feelings it is a speedboat skipping Like a stone among the islands I feel we’re in. When we are sitting in bed at five a.m. talking the light On I don’t feel so good I feel like we’re on a ferry For another six hours going back and up and forth And down. At least it’s a boat. When I sit and talk to girls Someplace I feel like I’m in a maritime museum. When we walk together to the pool or park it’s like I’m rowing you across to Banff, and when I Take you in a car to your mother’s house, the Bay of Fundy. At work the coast guard, walking there the merchant Marine, me in my pea coat.
With My Back to City Hall, On Yom Kippur
The gnats love the highway dividers, the freelance pickup artists love the softness of the hands of the women who love their friends for walking with them laughing at the situation, lost people love that I am sitting here looking likely to know, I love it when I know, knowledge in the form of radar loves the cloud cover which resembles my headache in its topography and its effect on my mood, the path which connects Park Row with Broadway loves the paranoia which has closed off all the paths closer than this to City Hall, Jesus loves the balding man in the striped windbreaker who looks at my small script and remarks, "Jesus loves you," I love the silk suit and the hard candy curl hair of the middle-aged black woman going by with her dry cleaning, I love the sock the bundled baby recumbent in an Aprica stroller kicks out, I love from a distance the speck this woman in the tight clothes reaches to brush from her shoe, I love the effect it has on her distraction, I love the ties tucked into the short sleeve shirts of the men returning from lunch, I love the men and women my age strolling with purpose in their Pumas, the feather tumbling by, the drift of the hulking red haired woman with psoriatic elbows, the opal in the hairbow of the Hindi woman in white robes and the tuck of her husband's shirt into his jeans, the ticking of the wheel of the bicycle rolled along by a backpack-wearing man on foot, the acceleration of an open-roof double-decker tour bus, the ignition cough of the not-in-service kneeling bus, the change clod and leaf-shuffle of the lower torsos and the carry-out conveyor sound of a closed up shopping cart, I love the downturned glance of the woman carrying the Borzoi College Reader crossing against the light and going into Pace, may all these people have rent-stabilized leases, and may they be registered to vote, in their unions, and in the next election.