out the cafeteria window of this skyscraper
on the edge of lower Manhattan,
I can see the waters below, waves
and foams serpentine behind ships and boats.
The Staten Island Ferry approaches the dock station
while another — her orange twin — has left
to reach near the Statue of Liberty; our Lady,
tall and greenish, stands above her sinking Island.
She appears tiny upclose underneath dark-gray morning clouds.
Up here my fingers can enclose or overpower
the ships and all I see outside.
I look on and pour honey on the scrambled eggs
and pancakes; lift the fork to my lips for a bite —
free daily meals. Time and a half over forty each week.
Boss gives warm, friendly greetings every morning.
A place where more people are starting to know your name.
To branch out has never been more discouraging,
nor can I afford to anchor my hopes here.
The calm moving waters below
aren’t like the ones that engulf my thoughts these years.
