I will write of the home of no water and electricity.
the city of my birth,
the empty domes in lieu ivory tower,
the leeches on our farmlands,
And the giant porcupine that soils the water ways of my father’s cottage.
the rancid fragrance – plumes of soot,
that shrivels the heart of swains.
I will write of the manicured grass that grows
impervious of the tragedy beneath,
of the glorified house of blood,
that pale my little brother of his chance:
all in the name of a deposit pence
of groaning birds,
fed with coated grains,
tangled in the web of fate.
I will write of the flowing ripples of Vietnam.
when it shouldered the weight of my paddle;
and floated our cry for help beyond enemy lines;
when this home away from home, became a morgue.
I will write of the avocado tree,
that shares its goodwill in skins of green flesh.
I will write of this place someday.
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