The Bureau

They gather up passports
and he hands over his own

and the bureau puts the signal
to the wheels, carries the order

on high, permission for the addition of
yet another name to the census, faceless,

snared in a maze of velvet rope
and red tape, no thread for him to follow,

seeking reestablishment for naught,
and not to realize now what he forgot,

the candor of his olive skin
no fairer than his father’s,

to be birthed into this Earth
beyond the line on greener grass

breathing soil and dreams American.
Come one, come all!


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