They’re yellow and purple,
some red and some green,
the fish that live in the city and
the mollusks that walk on the sidewalk,
and the seaweed that rides on the bus
from Uptown to Tribeca,
in this fish-pond that we call New York…
Some have made their way up to the Bronx,
others in a brownstone in Brooklyn,
with a minimalist view of the urban decor,
they live well, these fish from the city…
There’s a group in the Village
that dream of a song that once
bounced from stonewalls to gardens.
On St. Mark’s place they lingered,
on the Bowery they lounged
with four lads that just wanted to play CBGB…
But a fish cannot choose where to stand,
or demand anything, or insist there’s a place
in this pond of black water
for gills and for fins, for scales and for tales to order
another stale beer
from this bar…
From this bar called the Helpless,
from this kitchen without light or gas,
from these tables that haven’t seen plenty
in all these long years that have passed.
But we struggle and live in the city,
like a fish in the sand
always shouting, “I can!”
always dreaming I will,
but we didn’t…
C.2019 Francisco Bravo Cabrera, 25 DEC 2019, Valencia, Spain
