You’re in a foreign country,
And miserable people of every race, wearing coats,
Are going to work, and you think
This must be typical: the snow, the coats,
But it’s not. This country could be any country.
One tall woman walking past—
You don’t know the cigarette is her first and last.
You think the way the snow is coming down is typical.
It’s not. The snows are worse, and people get more miserable.
And you? You’ll be somewhere else tomorrow.
Typical. You will miss the sunshine, the debate, the sorrow.
If this country were completely unique,
Perhaps the way God molded Roman or Greek,
If this were the way God taught them to speak,
If this were the way God taught them to look,
(The price on a piece of paper, the formula in a book)
Then you could return to a land
Different from all lands, and happy.
But different is never different.
Why are people bored and miserable? Because every day
Is random, not typical, and nothing has to be this way.