Where east meets west, at Brooklyn’s Dead Horse Bay,
I washed up on the densely littered strand
To finger frets, and soundless ragas play
For bones and trash cast up here on the sand.
Not long ago, when Asia beckoned
Across the seas, and New York beckoned back,
I decorated mantles and was reckoned
Exotic figurine — until a crack
Formed when admirer slip-fingered
And dropped me down to earth with a tiny crash.
Abandoned by my owner, I malingered
In barrels, barges, and a sea of trash.
Amid the horse bones neighing each to each
I strum my silent sitar on the beach.