The Walking Boy

The gangs are the left

I’m the master suspicion

She’s not coming back

Not a star

To be wishin’

Upon

So go fish

For a dish in the kitchen

Soups on

And the homeless

Are worlds away

Hoping

Soon all be revealed

As the kid

Interloping

Some empath,

A scribe,

Messenger

In his stride

Impish his

Disposition

The Pacific

In his glide

And his mind

Is awhirl

Wind divining

Declining

Empire

Design

For the architect’s

Shape-scaping

Wasteland of mine

But the tribe

Is his center

His entryway to

Centuries

Of rich heritage,

Culture,

And food