Читать книгу Word Simple - Harold J. Recinos - Страница 14

my old man sailed the ocean

on a big old ship owned by

Uncle Sam in a second world

war evil wished for a country

that today would not offer shelter

to the Guatemalan likes of him.

my old mother neither black or

white held petty-wage jobs longer

it seemed than her bitter life in a

country that only called her spic.

my old man died a veteran of

a foreign war for a country never

home, freedom not ever his, and

that fine White House not taking

calls now from people with dark

skin. my old mother died nearly

alone in a convalescent home, crying

the nurses said every night to get

hell out, hearing the scratchy

sounds of her first born son laid

for final rest too young in a Staten

Island grave, alone. I see them

clearly in my slice of the world,

pray forgiveness for cursing them,

plead their cause present in the faces

of new immigrants, terrified refugees,

Black, Red, Yellow and poor White

lives. they told me one day a long box

would fall out of heaven to collect people

full of hate who dance around lynching

trees—I promised to do my part to hasten

the drop!