Undocumented

My sort doesn't cross the globe
With the easy grace of yours.
We are the scuttling cockroach men,
Who cringe in shadows, fearing feet,
Who've known the pain of upraised
Hands, and know, as well, the times
And fares of trains and buses leaving
Town. We live where we're allowed
To live. We do whatever you want
Done, and we eat when we get the
Chance, between the pleading and
The labor which allows your sort
To pass, as if you haven't seen us,
With your customary grace.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 19 times
Written on 2011-09-17 at 20:17

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