Orange walls, wasted arms

Posters in Spanish

Smoke in quivering shreds from cigarette butts

Coats sinking into ribs and bony eyes

Thin sweet echoes of baby rattles.

Long-nailed nurses in ponytails call out in bored voices

Another one goes down the line

Another one closes the door

Another check clutched in a freckled fist

Another car crushing the rainy road turning to snow.

Nigerians in headscarves, Bulgarians in resale leggings

Ragged T-shirts and stained sagging jeans

Fading smoke flowers on orange welfare walls

Donated, not for resale.

Alice’s walkout husband left her a note on the table.

Angel’s daughter’s got a cough and a runny nose.

Juanito’s father Manulito hears voices.

Air conditioners are warm like the refrigerator

Running down dreams

Tin-can voices, hand sanitizer

Babies learn to sit up and roll over

Cross-eyed faces round as mangos

All God’s children in plastic chairs

Beige and green like old guacamole.

How long must they wander?

How long?

Maybe they’ll run

Maybe they’ll go

Where a madman lives on a distant hill

And tries to touch the sun

Hoping as hard and fast

as tomorrow can come.

Maybe they’ll run

Maybe they’ll go.