Ghosts of Lower Manhattan
I’m a simple one at heart, a traveler looking for the turnoff.
I took a bus downtown to catch the train.
The ferry stops near where I rested in the doorways years ago,
Day after day, looking for the way out, trying to trace out patterns for my days.
It’s cold and not a ghost in sight, my ghosts have fled the graveyards;
those plotted remnants of my scattered heritage.
There are Carolina trails and hollows, Colorado mountain highs
The flatland cities, Western Plains, and Arizona deserts,
Then there’s County Cork and County Mayo, Venice to be sure.
A dusty Southern California town.
I’m a California girl at heart:
Sunlit, past-less, without a root to stand on.
What do I care where I came from? What do I care when I die?
But when this dim mirage of days begins to lose its ecstasy
I gather up my ghostly entourage and I hold it close to me.
I took a bus downtown to catch the train.
The ferry stops near where I rested in the doorways years ago,
Day after day, looking for the way out, trying to trace out patterns for my days.
It’s cold and not a ghost in sight, my ghosts have fled the graveyards;
those plotted remnants of my scattered heritage.
There are Carolina trails and hollows, Colorado mountain highs
The flatland cities, Western Plains, and Arizona deserts,
Then there’s County Cork and County Mayo, Venice to be sure.
A dusty Southern California town.
I’m a California girl at heart:
Sunlit, past-less, without a root to stand on.
What do I care where I came from? What do I care when I die?
But when this dim mirage of days begins to lose its ecstasy
I gather up my ghostly entourage and I hold it close to me.
SuperBowl Sunday on the Staten Island Ferry
