Sitting in Boston pretending I'm in London,
Umit Singh Dhuga must be near. Royal,
imperious, modern brick buildings,
limestones from the thirties, must think it queer
to watch the pigeons, drunks on benches,
or see us waiting for the all clear
of the green light at the crosswalk, tier on tier
my eyes rise from where I relax,
from the long night, desire for sleep—
into the brilliant haze of morning,
like sitting on a river pier,
and looking out across the way,
putting together the shards of the day,
as each new year comes our way,
tired of the burden we inherited,
finding a new way of being instead,
but the old way, of the great dead.
