I guess I’ve got to move across the river.
New Jersey beckons with its sulphur glow.
Say, numbered years are a lesser evil.
Money is green, but it doesn’t grow.
I’ll take away my furniture, my old sofa.
But what should I do with my window’s view?
I feel like I’ve been married to it, or something.
Money is green, but it makes you blue.
A body on the whole knows where it’s going.
I guess it’s one’s soul that makes one pray,
even though above it’s just a Boeing.
Money is green, and I am gray.
Joseph Brodsky, “Blues”. In: Word of Mouth. Poems featured on NPR’s All Thing Considered Catherine Bowman (ed.)