When I feel pulled sometimes I write a poem. Or maybe it's prose, I don't know. It doesn't happen often. And I never share them. But maybe this time I will. Consider it a draft.
Stuck
then strapped to the back of their mom working in the fields
until they walk at age 4,
it doesn't put them a step behind.
But when they are dropped in a place
where everyone's been walking since they were 1,
reading and playing violin since they were 3,
then they suddenly fall short.
Who will teach you your letters when you're 30?
How can you get a job interview without telling time?
What agency will do more than hand you paperwork?
Where will your three kids play when the guns are firing?
The fields are burned.
You can't go back.
The future is dark.
You can't go forward.
You're here.
You pray.
You wait.
You watch TV.
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