I’m hit by a wave of irony
Walking the streets of Columbia Heights, D.C.
There sits a President and administration,
Not more than a 15 minute drive from here,
Doing everything in their power
To target immigrants
When the landscape of their own backyard
Blossoms, sustained by the life force
Of those they deem to persecute.
Breathing in deep,
I’m hit by the aroma of sizzling Mexican dishes,
Burgers no more.
My ears perk up
By the clicking and popping
Of tall benign Africans
Shooting the breeze in their native tongue,
No longer common
The smooth canter
Of that oh so American
Way of speaking.
I steer clear off the path
Of young Hispanics on bikes
Rushing to get the day’s
Paper chasing done.
I breathe deep with them,
Catching the fresh scent,
Of that American pie,
The young and the old immigrants,
Waiting patiently around the table,
To carve out our fair share
Of the American dream.
In the poet’s own words: