by Carrie Albert
The navy blue tent, insulated
by grey blanket, was kept closed,
said, You can’t see me.
I'm blind to you. Other tents
gathered across the street
on the strip of grassy park
illumined by sun. The solitary
one on the pavement lip
said: I’m not of society.
I never saw who lived
inside but was respectfully
afraid. Graffiti on the wall
behind his tent faintly
scrawled: hate
next to a monster face.
After two seasons,
the tent was taken down,
insides turned out.
I snooped when walking by:
a textbook on human physiology,
photos of a family past,
letters–write sometime huh?
I love you very much,
signed S, postmarked from Norway
to Andy, in the south-end of Seattle,
who had a home.
Then the shopping cart where crows
gathered to feast on open garbage,
a wooden chair, soiled pillows,
one embroidered Family,
the folded tent, the letters
were gone
like a dream
with no American excuses.
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