I think we can all agree

that it’s a terrible conceit,

a self-important conflation,

when he says he feels like

a refugee            just because

he sometimes sleeps on the couch

and has to move his piles

of composition books and crossword puzzles

and tomorrow’s running clothes

from room to room, corner to corner.

He wraps his precious self-respect

in a tattered blanket of ego

and clutches it to his chest

as he squeezes on board

the leaky vessel of another moonless crossing.


About Ray Sharp

Father, poet, triathlete, local public health planner
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