a spy

Every morning I see this guy
standing at the same bus stop as I am,
waiting for a same bus as I am.

He always wears a perfectly fitted suit,
carries an expensive leather briefcase.

His eyes are always hiding behind the sunglasses,
even when it is raining,
always looking at some undefined spot.

(nowhere)

Always on time.

I call him “a spy”.

I am sure nobody cares about him,
but I was always curios about what does he do.

This morning I learned
that he always takes this bus
to the mental clinic
where he receives his treatments every day.


Now I am wandering what people may think of me,
while I am standing at the bus stop
and flapping my wings of silver and bronze
from time to time.

Lost and found

One flat violin,
the smell of garlic knots,
a loud woman speaking mandarin behind my back,
a Hassidic Jew submerged into Talmud
and some praisings “Hare Krishna” from another end.

(I even saw Jonah a few times before).

The train dives like a sperm whale
into the gaping hole
of the underworld of Brooklyn.

(en route)

One nauseating hangover,
a notebook.

First I was lost, then I was found on a Friday afternoon.