A Nativist's DreamThe refugees arrive, the scraps of paper, plastic bags,
Sheet metal, sometimes, Styrofoam, swept from their
Former residences by a cold and driving wind.
The hedge and fence won't let them through to come
To rest in my front yard. “Trash,” I hiss, and curse
Their presence, planning to collect and then discard them
Quickly as I can, but, before I have plucked a single
Bag spread-eagled on a branch, the wind abruptly
Shifts and blows the wretched things away.
Poetry by Lawrence Beck
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Written on 2019-04-11 at 22:06
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