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