(1980)
The East Indian girl in a worn sarong,
refuge’s rucksack at her feet,
slumps against mommy on a bench
at Penn Station on a Friday afternoon
where I slump weary of my own wars
up and down Wall Street
I want to know if she’s
thinking what I am thinking
as I look up at the immense
glass ceiling
Is this all there is or is there
something more?
She seems too young
to have seen what her eyes
say she has seen,
the expression on her face
too blank to care what I know
or don’t know about how
she has lived life so far or
where the next train will take her
When she sees me notice her
she doesn’t bother to blink,
lays her head on mommy’s lap
on her way to yet another journey
to escape the nightmare world