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1997
it is august. the
smoke & fumes of
city construction combined with
the glaring sun has left you
dizzy and dazed.
but no matter the times,
there is still an accent
in your voice,
a distinct label that
lets others know:
you are not
one of us.
you dress in the same clothes
day by day and
when you sit in class,
there is nothing but
rumble and jumble that
floats into and out of your ears.
you own less than the
used books you haul around and
the pencils you keep losing.
spending all your time
hidden in the library has
left you thinking:
maybe i don't belong here
after all.
you are nothing but
alone and your
newlywed husband is
oceans across.
there is no familiar face,
no helping hand,
only a dim streetlight
as your guide for the
journey back home.
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