Personal Peace
Yesterday I stopped by the corner newsstand.
“I know full well you can’t afford the Sunday paper, but
why are you in the street?” A voice in my head asked.
I should be in the subway for my morning satire of the
bureaucratic city. Destination frantic.
I like the street lamps in my neighborhood that keep on
until noon. That’s privilege trying to call your attention.
Everything I need is near my finger tip, across the window,
window shopping, a sign of my freedom.
I believe I will die believing one day I can
afford shopping there. It’s amazing how the hope never dies!
There’s real drama hidden in hope and expectation.
I work minimum wage at Amazon, less wretched than
the Amazon natives fleeing deforestation, still thrashing
like a chopped tree. The dead trees speak louder than me.
Old poets look at how I look at you. I think of you relentlessly.
You’re the birds high overhead and I’m the last lunatic in your
velvet city filled with official holidays. Freedom means a holiday
from your inner infernal city, beheading all your statues, making
personal peace.
Copyright © Kaveh Afrasiabi | Year Posted 2022
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment