They lie in wait
along the river,
they sleep
without shelter,
they clamber
across bridges,
they thirst
through the desert.
They’re children
wrapped in
swaddling clothes
who find no manger,
they’re pilgrims
seeking hope
till they land
in cages.
Back home
are cluster bombs,
rival factions
on every corner,
sniper streets
and poison gas
financed by politics
and banks.
Back home
are drug trade,
gang recruitment
and gang rape,
disappeared
and bloody corpses
courtesy of riches
and affluent addictions.
So they clamber
into boats
forgetting comfort
and warmth,
brave their way
through dark forest,
begging morsel
and border.
So they caravan
unwelcome
across river,
desert and state,
bake on railroad,
paddle shoal and bay,
driven by
coyote’s take.
Do they batter
like the uniformed
in the night?
Do they swagger in
like thieves
in long limos?
Do they scoff
from high rise
office and window?
Do their exploits
impoverish
tens of millions?
Or a hundred?
Or even one?
They lie in wait
along the river,
they sleep
without shelter,
they clamber
across bridges,
they thirst
through the desert.
They’re children
wrapped in
swaddling clothes
who find no manger,
they’re pilgrims
seeking hope
till they land
in cages.
