The Immigrant

I don't know your hunger-scape,
your have and nots, what you
need, the hive you inhabit. You
might as well buzz about
in strange fields, making secret honey
I'll never taste. You exist
having loved, been kissed, having lost,
now rejected because you're in the way,
take up space, took a seat on the bus before
the lady with the Barbara Bush teased back hair
could sit down first. You're as welcome as
a Starling at a bird bath, a plague as old as
burgundy blood waters, falling frogs, showers of
rock and fire. Still misunderstood, sentenced
without trial like the little fat kid in third grade
I called friend. Went to his house after school
thinking the others weren't looking,
and the next day,
when they asked,
before the recess bells
chimed three times,
I denied
I did.