the National Guard won’t go near them.
My path was beaten unconscious before me,
by a small brown man I never got to see,
who chased God through India, shin-deep in mud,
barefoot and famined, malarial blood,
sleeping in doorways, under bridges—a hobo.
(Which is short for “homeward bound,” you know)
And he now chases me, saying: “Got it yet, Liz?
What HOMEWARD means? What BOUND really is?”
SecondHowever.
If they’d let me wear pants made out of the