The snow is sniffy.

I want to call home

George Washington

And talk politics.

He cannot tell a lie.

History is my hurdle,

When the wilderness of cities

Joins me in my dance

On the highways of the dark night

And sings numbers

In low tunes

I feel

I’m not alone.

I am incarcerated, in these dark walls
I see nothing, coerced to smell
Filthy, dirty, plagued floors
You caught me by my collar
Dragged me to these walls
Which I won’t call a “place”
Some days ago
Just the sore words I whispered
“We Want Freedom!”

The lingam will melt

And stones pelt

In my home:

It is hot summer.

The floor is as shingle

Where bloods commingle

Through the lattice

As far as I can see

It’s an eerie silence

With yellow patch on road

Beating its head.

seasons never change

by pages being turned over.

Without reason,

every morning

I turn over pages of the calendar

Is ours a bad bargain?

Some say yes.

Some say no.

We are torn apart.

So are our kids.

So are our teens.

So are our dreams.