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.


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.