In Exile, , , Poem by Eric Cockrell

must poets live in exile?
strangers limping to the dance.
streetlights dancing on the lampshade,
thrown into the trash.
in conversations with rats,
sleeping with ghosts in empty buildings.
immigrants without papers,
pawning blood for a drink.

by fires on the fringe,
stirring the stew made of hope.
eyes blackened by the smoke,
laughing with small children.
painting revolution on sterile walls,
sharing bread with mongrel dogs.
lovers without a country,
homeless, going home!