sometimes I want to flee
the concrete land they made for me
through the weed grown ditch
the overgrown ravine
into a jungle
with mountains on the other side
where men with no uniforms
want to kill me with sticks and stones
and finally I am at home
lost in a land of no hope
away from the love of sweaters and television
freezing at night
melting under a noontime canopy
where others tremble
where I matter
where there’s a lion coming around the corner
the lie of safety laid bare
where I am unmistakably hungry
on the march through enemy country
no law to draw a line
no rent that’s overdue
nowhere to rest without the twitch in the neck
without the speedy glance over the shoulder
that puts me a step ahead of my brother
who’s late to wake up
who’s in real trouble
whom I’ll forget
in the stream of days and weeks
that rush by
without the help of a calendar


Bob Hudson lives in a multiverse composed of mostly independent parallel universes. 

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