From The Streets Below
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:
