A call from an immigrant
The crisscross of rain draws meaningless things
and erases them in the next moment
on the old glass of the pristine cafe.
Tan skin of his fiongers
play with the keys of his cell.
So much are there to share, to talk about
And to listen at a given second.
All the data jammed his power to speak.
After all these years of self burnt days and
of hushed up living at a higher rent,
he has earned his way to go back home.
White days of being trafficked into
a land of foreign promises, the days
of black and blue to yellow and red and
now it is his gold, a golden phone call
to a distant home with promises of
his own.
“ Ma, I got a ticket to comeback.”
“ Will you stay onward?”
any answer whatsoever becomes smeared in rain.
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Version 16961, "Pacino"; Copyright © 2009 Gather Inc. All rights reserved.
Comments: 42
Nicely penned
Good stuff.
an author's best friend...
and erases them in the next moment
on the old glass of the pristine cafe." Beautifully expressive :)
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Lovely prose, my friend.
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Thanks for sharing
This is such a great piece dealing with longing and nostalgia. Nice.
Thanks for posting in http://poeticjourney.gather.com/ .