where silvery soup cans cracked the pavement,

where red juice whined out from containment,

sweet fleshy fruit spittled fruits,

fresh from private property gardens.

where rooms stack like racks,

where these same shelves fall to be replaced by flat brick,

roam on with our nap sacks,

sold souls from a picnic.

where honey hives cure,

where pure is impure but is pure yet impure,

putting white knghts in check by a pawn,

with their queen ready to claw out our eyes, our ears.

colonized lands built from stolen hands given freedom only to be trapped again,

and the old rule's moseleum turns without end.

where on backs we can stack stack stack and not bend,

where ceilings are yet another wall to apprehend,

born under the blessings of the sun in an attempt to deny the moon,

our new ties seemed too new to have molded this soon.