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Immigrant Poem
This highway takes us to another country
Beyond the ocean of trees and red hills
the inhabitants speak the same language, same song
But we are from another one, across the sea
A few signs of boiled peanuts, fresh peaches
Remind us where we are, if occasionally
What's true in one land might not so
Be true in quite another land we are told
A new code of existence and justification
Hidden in a mask of merry go round
That one knows how to go from here to there
Was little help in knowing the way to the place
The place where no strangers stare like enemy
Unchanged from the time of gentility and hope.
A boy might ask his tired, driving father,
"What must we do to be accepted in this land?"
And yet, this endless highway continues on,
Slicing through the land that someone owns
This afternoon, not ready to accept our lot
But ready to go forth into the horizon
A caravan of vacationers, explorers, or just
plain bored,speeding and screeching across
Lost hours littered like shattered rocks
