They are refugees or hope to be,
Expats living in their own country
Still, searching for some rebellious
They do not know how.
If everyone listens to the steady
Snakeskin boot tap, they like the melodic
Whine of a pop song, the iridescent twang
Of an electronic guitar.
If everyone else dresses in bright Mediterranean
Colors, they decide to show up in the drab
The opposite is always true when searching
For a truth your own.
He was slave to his vices,
Slave to the call in his stomach,
Even when the beer burned the back
Of his throat.
Even when the whiskey was gone.
Even when they broke in (his friends)
And stole his money.
He worshipped his VCR and its many
The curtains were always askew in his
Tiny mobile home, the lighting always
A little off, like seeing life through an amber
Bottle. Seeing life defeated at a young age,
Then slump further down.
The artist must be observed in seasons.
In the fall, it is the smell of age,
The academic with his thesis tucked under
His arm, strolling the walkway.
In the winter, it is melancholy, a stack
Of books beside a cold bed.
In the spring, he has his journal out,
Moved to budding art.
Then the summer is stifling heat
As the rejections pile in, as they call him
A fraud, and he stuffs his work back down
To be dead again in autumn.
The midwife is called and so makes
Haste to the small hut, gathered in moonlight,
Where the screams have begun.
Her instruments are ready, her advice
Forming in a small coin on the tip of her
Where the puffing of breath has already
Started, she will provide a brief balm.
A splash, spasm, multitude of pain,
And a small reptile escapes,
Summoning old Salem charges from the past.
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