The American Friend
The road is cold, clear, knots of Folk on side streets chat, wait For the bus to a small room I will Never enter, never see, though imagine A few times in bewilderment at life I will, I mean the life of them here Who live surrounded by duress and Therefore whose figures are more than Right in front of my eyes, ordinary lives So much so I simply can't see, I, a Regular character in the papers, whose Life has been neither difficult nor important. And in my country is it different? And would you feel that carapace too, If you had this bitter pleasure If you lived among but never with us?
|The East Village Poetry Web