I rail to work in the city of finance,
one amongst many
refugees’ children and grandkids,
Indians, Jews, Irish, Ibos, and more.
We are survivors of a century of warfare and cattle-cars
where puzzled children rode to their dying,
while homeless families trekked through ruins and by-roads,
machine-gunned by airplanes
powered by fear and its hate.
We refugees’ heirs ride to our day jobs
in air-conditioned boxes.
We watch fellow riders work on their spreadsheets
to build others’ wealth:
“Clear-cut the Congo of lumber and people.”
“Buy up three islands for vacation-land play.”
Some work at foreclosures
to move factories to fields
stripped bare of peasants
who flee here for jobs that pay only
sauce for starvation
as we jam full the balance sheets
of profit called freedom,
a train-full of heirs
in a refugee world.
