Micropoetry Monday: Displacement

Park bench.jpg

First place:
Reminiscent of a nursing home,
with its waxy floors
& glossy walls,
the young family
with a strange grandmother
& their little girl
who could not be just that.

Second place:
A methhead argued with voices
outside her door
while the day laborers
lounged over the rails
under the mythical red roof,
so she kept the light out
to hide the light
that played inside.

Third place:
Their temporary displacement did not
lapse into permanent homelessness.
A loveseat,
& borrowed vehicle,
was a mimicry of what home
had once felt like.

Last place:
They ended up at the purveyors
of blue eggs & Spam,
leftover church suppers,
& expired goods;
where trains blew their horns
throughout the night,
disrupting dreams of being
where thunder from the trucks
rumbling down the Interstate
became the perpetual score
of their home movie;
where autonomy became
The Thing to Be Re-earned,
in exchange for daily consumption
of humble pie.
Yet it was at this shelter
of second chances
that they would be given
a third.

And Jesus said to him, The foxes have holes, and the birds of the air have nests; but the Son of man has not where to lay his head.  (Matthew 8:20)

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