One morning the train to work was rerouted
No Plandome. No Great Neck. No Auburnadale
Nor Woodside, where all must change.
Tus there was and Merv, Samarcand, and Balkh and Bukhara.
The conductors promised we would eventually
Reach Penn Station but I detrained at Nishapur
Famous for its pots, its grapes and its wines and
For Omar Khayyam who wrote about them.
No one here speaks English and it seems to be
Only a few hundred years after the Hejira
Say, 1150 by my reckoning. I get by;
People here are used to lost men; we have our own
Burial association, a flag and a rousing anthem.
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