This is a poem that I think celebrates the hopes and joys of life, its tenacity, in the face of monotony and the daily grind of the week in week out rat race. I thought some images of my home town, New York, would capture the look and feel of that monotonous grind. So we have here the references to the rush hour, the high rises, the endless rise and fall of the stock market, and the timeless waters of Sheepshead Bay, on the south shore of Brooklyn. All week long we seem to drag ourselves in the hope of the weekend, and then, after a brief respite, it's back to the endless grind. But on this long journey are the glimpses of light, the songs on the radio, the soaring architecture and the burgers and fries we cherish along the way. estory

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