If I tell you how tough it is to sit here
when my eyes have been opened,
a new light yet to adhere,
the room a lost rainbow,
you will toss my name away.
My back and legs and head
plead for me to stand and leave.
You would laugh with my body parts
and remind me I have no reason to whine,
that it's my decision to keep closing my eyes
to watch the people,
each in a city with its own sky.
Four thousand miles to the east
the pregnant girl whose language I once knew
is shopping for her unborn baby's clothes
in an early spring's last winter blast.
A man in the Keys is thinking of roses
although he knows roses aren't the flowers
she likes best. It's sunny
but will rain soon in Amritsar
where the prostitutes give me a glance
and turn their heads.
They have no chance they know
with a man unable to rise from his chair.
They see plenty of men
who do what they want them to do
and know I will still be here
when the day disappears.