I tell of the hell
that befell
a young whale
as purple pastels fell,
mixing in the foam,
bleeding colors
mostly unknown
in this aquatic world,
tainting the slick skin
of my orca acquaintance
I consider a friend.
So, that his kin
barely recognized him.
If not for
the sonic waves
that emanated across
the ocean floor
this purple painted
whale would have
died alone.

I will never be wealthy
but I can help you see
clearly to our shared humanity
in print and polished prose
that represent those
who are not close to me
but in poverty are me,
a part of this universal family.

I found a journal from a homeless man
and his words worked within
my previous position,
words with the same pain
I was once burdened with
when I was homeless.
I had a journal to
though this one
is a little different.

I came at a different angle
but this person is not a stranger
this is just one aspect
of our singular story
that should unite us in our humanity.

I come to my perspective
from a position
of privilege
with more power to express
points of view
that are oppressed
or ignored.

The fabric folds
around my fingers
seeking nothing,
which is what
I find,
empty pockets
perused
to amuse myself
and pass the time.

It is a field
of cubicles,
rectangle walls
that rise
chin high
on either side,
in a rainforest of
of random plants.

Two fish
swim in
their own
aquarium
prison.

I drive at night
and my eyes find
dark water that reflects
and stretches
carnival lights
beyond their normal
lines.