Paper-white dove
on a concrete windowpane,
concrete crumbling into 1928.
But the room
was bigger then,
held more than just a couch.
Laying like plaster
statues on the wood paneled floor boards,
bulldogged bodies tight and
lean.
Tied, sticking to the thickly stacked air,
screaming nonsense
into the ears of strangers.
Fire red rays beating their fists,
against
the glass.
Sounding the tongues,
Korean, Farsi, Urdu.
Understanding
only the tone,
the contorted lips,
the weightless arm slices,
winds from
heavy words,
mouths sucking in the day.
Leaving nothing for the cowards,
nothing
for the loners,
nothing for the deaf or blind.
Inside, surrounded
by pastel yellow nude skinned stucco walls.
Sleepless, but dreaming
of difference.
Drinking dirty bathwater,
hoping it’ll turn to wine.
Author’s Bio:
Born in
