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I guess it’s too late
to live on a farm.
As if I could buy a house!
Let alone land.
A place of my own–
is what my friend sighed,
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our someday dream,
our loftiest goal.
Today again I paid
to learn, watching
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refugees sit and waitfor their bus, and asked
the doctor what the term
really means–
she couldn’t state
exact qualifications,
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just that for some
recognized reason,
a person had to leave
their homeland.
But, had a home,
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and have a new home, here.Or housing, at least.
More stable than those
that exist in doorways,
or under the bridge
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in tents that spring up
like mushrooms when it rains.
And how they also pay,
if not in money. Life
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is costly. At some point
we all get priced out–
a roof, a room, a house,
a home. When you’ve got nothing
to trade, to leverage, to sell–
it’s too late to live on a farm.
All that’s left is to work
in the fields that someone else owns.
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