Somewhere around
the know-it-all years,
my American shoes
stepped on a midnight train
to see the countryside,
my American shoes
stepped on a midnight train
to see the countryside,
except another side
stepped in front of me.
Riding a refugee train
to wherever,
a soiled schoolboy
stepped in front of me.
Riding a refugee train
to wherever,
a soiled schoolboy
with sunken lips and no home
to call his own, gripped
his mother’s dress, in search
of a warm place to sleep, hot
meals, freedom—stuck between
the pages of Europe
Through the Back
Door and their lifetime of
having no door, front
or back, anymore.
Linda G. Hatton
Newhall, CA USA
Donated to Friends of Fondation de France
You make the plight very palpable without being prosaic or obvious. Well done.
ReplyDeleteBuddah, thank you for reading and for your thoughtful comments. I always appreciate your feedback.
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