On Seeing a French Poster for the Ice Palace
textbooks called them “Lost”
border after border crossed
before being labeled “Expatriates”
the search for Art, Music, Words,
even just a decent damned conversation
at a café in the Monmartre—
over hill over dale hitting the dusty trail
for something to believe in
after the war to end all wars that
let loose the dogs of racism fear
and party money frenzy
for another century or so
in the land of the greed
home of the wage slaves
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This poem moves in a direction I absolutely was not expecting, and I love it all the more because of that.