This morning I sing, I am a Turkish man
living in New York, and I fling my arms wide
to embrace the city.

I am smiling because I’ve left home
early for college and the sun
is an orange contact lens in the eyes of high-rises.

Then I see a woman weeping and think of Istanbul.
A designer banker runs past with strings of nipple rings
clinking on his bare chest,

self-awarded medals for surviving the system
for twenty nine years. He wears pink and purple
trousers and Nikes;

he looks as if he should be in Central Park
where the sun is already riding trees.
He redresses the balance -

until I see the man who manages the bagel shop
...