Wintertime in America

We at the table
of promise
have been turned away

The sheriff’s office
set a roadblock—
There’s no dry
ground here for you.

That’s how they speak
to this warm brown face

They shift the bullets
into the chambers
& are ready to fire

We’re not watching film
As an Act of Protest
the angst, the mad
scribbling of hip poets
It’s our neighbor
now pressed to the wall

The people of Darfur
cross the border
into Chad.

We’re sent to the Bronx.
Flown to Utah. We
shifted to places
we don’t want to be
like pieces in a game. . .
Our forecast is freezing rain.