Now, if you pitch your little tent along the broad highway
The board of Sanitation says, “Sorry, you can’t stay.”
“Come on, come on, get movin’,” it’s the ever-lasting cry
Can’t stay, can’t go back and can’t migrate so where the hell am I?
I’m in constant motion in one direction
North,
Borders,
South,
Time.
My feet are blistered and cracked clay.
My tongue is dry
cotton in my mouth
from a gin I’ve never seen.
I lost my shoes
and my sense of direction
to a pothole a few miles back.
The salt gnaws at my jeans.
The frigid wind brands my skin in spots
red hammers and scythes
from a place I’ve never seen.
I must be a leopard,
escaped from the zoo,
who dreams of the Amazon.
Recent Comments