Wednesday, March 6, 2013

Omenilad, Omenilad

Looking out my brother's window,
I notice all the patches
on the roof across the way
and wonder how effective
they might be
at keeping out the rain and cold
for residents within.
The poverty is captured here
in searing black and white.

And then there's the graffiti:
What artist lives to scramble
to a roof, to paint --
words that seem to have no meaning?
Is it just an exercise?
Or is it boredom?

Is there some message here,
some beauty that I cannot bear
or do not care enough to read?

Omenilad, Omenilad,
no matter where you toss your dice,
the probability of your escape is low.
(you and me, you and me
I think about you day and night,
it's only right,
and if I call you up, invest a dime,
and you say it belongs to you,
to ease my mind) --
I'm hoping that your paint brings warmth
to you and all the residents within.

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