I was a boat, and well at anchor
In a pink fishing village in Maine-
And not some woodchip adrift and pale
On the Bronx's blackheart waves.
Nailed to a flat plain coffee-shop back here
Sipping cola through a straw, I'm free
To ignore my patches. Here at least
I can show myself some courtesy.
Eyes full of a suspicious cloud,
In Jerusalem I disavowed
My title of nobility.
Here in New York I can be
A threadbare jacket hanging on my hanger.