Without a story to tell
who are we but people who have not lived.
Watching children play,
approaching hand in parent’s hand
to a park that is my front yard,
Sliver by sliver
and dose by dose.
While now there are trees that whisper and swish
in every kind of wind
instead of uninterrupted concrete and destructive voices,
I have the long view
knowing what it is to live between rage and despair.
And I don’t like who it made me.
Sometimes I realize,
when before I could not,
we may become who we do not want to be
simply to return, along the long road,
to who we are.