Sorry ( To my friends in Toronto)

Yes my friends, I feel sorry that

I didn’t have two hundred brothers,
A cave, a bat, that’s what bothers
Me, that I didn’t see London,
That that night I used a condom,
That I didn’t work in the Twin Towers,
That I did that to those flowers,
That I can’t make a soup of pride,
That I was too afraid to hide,
That too easily I can write poems,
Easily I meet Yeats at a séance,
That I went by near that pub in Bath,
That I heard the Yes in every Da,
That I didn’t have two hundred brothers,
With Stalin we couldn’t kiss each other,
That we don’t have trams here around,
It could have hit me and now
I wouldn’t be sorry for being alive,
That I breathe, talk, watch and cry,
And I feel sorry for my cells
On your face as they fell,
I feel sorry that my eyes are blue,
My heart is the All, except of you,
That I didn’t have two hundred brothers,
That I had two hundred one lovers,
That God picked me at random,
That Freddy then didn’t use a condom,
That there are no trams around here,
It could have hit me, and now with a beer
I could be flying up in the air,
among you, in Toronto, somewhere.