My friend,
The young Kurd who works
A daily twelve-hour shift
At the local service station,
Has been on duty long before daybreak,
But as my bicycle is not
An automobile
And thus needs nothing
But air, he remains
In his cubicle and continues
Listening to songs
Of the motherland. Still, I know
He keeps an eye out for me
For when I leave,
I see an upright hand
Waving in the air.
This is perfection, my friend. How do you stand yourself? No, really—an amazing poem....
ReplyDeleteI can just picture this scene, down to the last detail. I agree with Joe. Amazing.
ReplyDeleteDear friends,
ReplyDeletePerhaps......but not as amazing as your grace, for which I thank you.