Share 'They're Going Home In The Mission (A Post-Election Poem)'
They're Going Home In The Mission (A Post-Election Poem)
On the 48 bus no one would think
to stare, no gawking in the windows
of the poor. The poor who hate
that phrase; they wouldn't use it.
I gawk out the glass, hawking
my wits, for sale in this post-election
Mecca of my birth. My placenta dumped,
buried here 50 years over, fish into flesh
in the bay. Trumpets weave through traffic.
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