It took me years
To start dreaming in dollars
Which I do, at six forty-five,
As the clock radio goes off
Announcing that the Dow is up
So I get up as well
And ride my bike to Sunset Park,
Past Green-Wood Cemetery
Where, last week, our landlord buried
His old brother, a man I’ve never met
But who used to live in this house,
A life as real to me as fiction.
The October sun penetrating
Feather-shaped leaves of oak trees
Makes it look like early spring
Which, in a way, it is.
Young people sing of broken hearts
Later, you marvel at the generosity
You since birth have carried
In the vaults of your chest.