Sunday morning, 5am

it rained during the night
my Turkish flag flutters
damp in the wind
the street is empty
but did I expect it
not to be
at 5 o’clock
in the morning
it’s Sunday all day
quiet now
after last night’s speeches
and chanting
people are still protesting
what is to them
a move to dictatorship
it’s all flashback
the sixties
something I survived
to find myself observing
here in my adopted land
the cat has followed me
out here to the living room
and sits on the back
of my chair
wondering
just what we will do
as I sit here wondering
what will become
of a people
I have grown
so very fond
of
this morning
all mornings
in ancient Istanbul

the glasses: for Frank

are gone
you discover that in the morning
on your way to the subway
when the street looks hazier than usual
you remember a street sign
First Avenue
and think
they’re somewhere on First Avenue
you feel slightly woozy
like you did in the shower
when you realized you were still drunk
you know your ex-wife would say
see why I married someone boring
and yeah, you think
yeah I see
and somehow, some way
the day will end
and you’ll go home
to sleep like the baby
you never were