You know first stop is always Istanbul,
from Christ-converted Constatine unto
the tattered coat upon a stick and through
one New-York mayor’s fiscal opuscule—
Dardanelle-to-Hudson stepping stool
of first-class fares and frequent billets-doux,
Byzantium-on-Hundson revenue
for what?—some jerseys, some dull travel pool
of junkets? Once we laid awake and dreamed
of Hagia Sophia’s jeweled tiles, tinkling
fountains, palace eunuchs, fabulous
Eastern riches, pashahs, oh, it seemed
unearthly, magic—hadn’t the slightest inkling
it could become so grotty, dull, and sus.