Personal Peace

Yesterday I stopped by the corner newsstand. “I know full well you can’t afford the Sunday paper, but why are you in the street?” A voice in my head asked. I should be in the subway for my morning satire of the bureaucratic city. Destination frantic. I like the street lamps in my neighborhood that keep on until noon. That’s privilege trying to call your attention. Everything I need is near my finger tip, across the window, window shopping, a sign of my freedom. I believe I will die believing one day I can afford shopping there. It’s amazing how the hope never dies! There’s real drama hidden in hope and expectation. I work minimum wage at Amazon, less wretched than the Amazon natives fleeing deforestation, still thrashing like a chopped tree. The dead trees speak louder than me. Old poets look at how I look at you. I think of you relentlessly. You’re the birds high overhead and I’m the last lunatic in your velvet city filled with official holidays. Freedom means a holiday from your inner infernal city, beheading all your statues, making personal peace.