What’s the Point

Translated by Mira Rosenthal

The guy who bought the world is totally broke.

What’s the point of such foolishness, simple mind?

He puts on his greatcoat and walks into dusk,

neon lights sing zip-a-dee zap, it grows dark.

He’s used to living in such twilight, behind

frosted glass. He’s beginning to sweat around

the collar, it’s a bit warm. The dinner hour,

time elongates, skyscrapers make a bower.

There are those just on the cusp of dozing off,

there are those who cannot wait any longer.

If nothingness exists, there’s excess, enough

to go around. A crowd mills about somewhere —

still maybe a street ahead of their footsteps,

like that time he grabbed his stuff and headed out

from the hotel and walked the city’s asphalt

till the very clothes on his back turned to salt.