Dreamers

The hand extended to an innocent child,

the hand snapped back; the slap

back-handed, the raised club,

the road-side stop, the knock

three times at the midnight door.
Dark-celled without a lawyer,

then bused to a border, and over it.

One hand, with a pen-stroke

(small fingers tweeting), eight

hundred thousand eye-blink exiles.

What list are you on, reader,

and when does your time come?

9/5/2017