Indian Summer
by David Dephy
That’s right, friends, it was an Indian summer.
I was sitting in the New York’s taxi, as I was
sitting in the hammock hanging on the waterfall
and I was thinking about myself on the waterfall…
“When we are not ourselves, we are killing ourselves,”
I thought. “We are the lights when we are ourselves,
but when we aren’t we are killing the lights.
The reflections of us only, remain the same.
It’s impossible to be yourself, but you can,
no one was yourself before you, you’ll be the first,
you always can be yourself.” The cab driver looked
at me in his rear-view mirror, he saw my face with
the sun behind me. The sun was going down, sinking
behind and across and under and above the Manhattan
and Brooklyn bridges and I thought of all the ideas
that maybe I, or maybe we left undone.
The cab driver turned on the radio, Billie was singing
there and the driver said to me: “Yeah bro, as a driver,
I can say that it’s not beautiful to be the second Billie
Holiday and it’s impossible too, right?”
“Exactly,” said I and smiled, of course.
Previously published by Bosphorus Review of Books, May 3, 2020 (USA/Turkey)
PHOTO: Taxi, New York City. Photo by Laura Puig, used by permission.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: David Dephy is a Georgian/American award-winning poet and novelist. Winner of the Spillwords Poetry Award and finalist of the Adelaide Literary Awards for the category of Best Poem, he was named as A Literature Luminary by Bowery Poetry and The Incomparable Poet by Statorec. His work has been published and anthologized in the USA, UK, and all over the world by many literary magazines, journals, and publishing houses. He lives in New York.
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