Is it too Late to Find our Way Back Home?



“Get out of my country,” he said,
as if he owned the place,
as if he decided who could stay or go,
as if a man’s life was worth less
based on his origins,

a man died,
an engineer who spent his days
helping us find our way,
helping us navigate our lives
with a device that tells us
where and when to turn,

getting us where we need to go each day,
maybe to meet a friend,
take care of an aging mother,
find a restaurant,
locate a hospital,

coming to our country where such
an opportunity allowed him to use all
of his genius,
only to be shot by a man who’d lost his way,

misguided by hatred,
encouraged by rhetoric,
emboldened to act,
feeling he had done something good,
but, in truth, he’d shot a hole in all of us,

before long we will be
riddled with holes.

Is it too late to
find our way back home?

2 responses

  1. I wish this poem could be read by everyone in the country, the world. We absolutely must ponder these questions and honor everyone, even those of us who think we already do.

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