The East River

Out my window, the sun darts off the East River. 

My checking statement: $61. My Money Market: $432.

The ferry plunges into the waves, heading for Brooklyn. 

I sit stunned at my desk. I have no more money. 

I have always had inherited wealth like a diaper around

me, insulating me from my many firings.

A helicopter lifts from the 34th Street helipad, 

leaving the rusty concrete ticket shed behind. 

I believed the money would always be there.

Cars zip up the FDR, 60 miles per hour with no shoulder. 

Still no job. No other source.

Kayakers brave the polluted waters, alternating oars like rototillers. 

The money is gone. My throat is hollow. Temples tight. 

Seagulls swirl around the piers, diving for glinting fish. 

Mouth slack, breathing a faint pant.

A sailboat tacks upstream, fighting the roiling tide.

The East River carries on.

Can I?