Journey to America
At night, you plan.
You count your money,
select durable shoes,
plot paths and snacks,
and are seized with fear.
In bed, you cannot sleep.
So, you quietly go
outside and sit in
silence. Under stars, you
encode a lifetime of mental selfies
and breathe in the unknown.
Before dawn, you wake.
You prepare breakfast,
wake your child,
take their hand
and begin your
journey North.
All so you can sweep
floors or care for
American kids or
sell Big Macs or maybe
become a business
owner and help
that little hand in
yours to reach higher.
To stay or go?
You commit your life
and dreams to theirs,
because without hope
life shrinks down
to a binary choice.
You are not naive.
To enter America means
waiting in cages,
waiting on hard floors,
waiting in close quarters,
cruelty, disregard,
torture, boredom
and more
despair.
Somehow, you arrive.
At the border, you line up,
claim your place, and
try to smile.
Inside a grim room, you
keep your head down,
comply, discover
the patience of
sorrow, the
obsession
of separation.
6 hours a day you dream
of release and entry into
a land of excess. Bewildering
supermarkets, large cars
and large people, late night
TV, sugary drinks, backyards,
playgrounds, and schools.
You only need a few drops
of excess to spill into
your life and run into your child’s life.
The smallest chance is still a chance.
Hope vs. despair.
Binary.
