I do not pity the immigrant

I do not pity the immigrant.

he – a wondrous vapor in a whirlwind.

the past is not easily traced

and his future alludes

cynical prediction.

sins are simple memories

fondly revisited

and no one knocks

at the door to collect rent.

his hands leave no print

arms, legs, body, hair

resemble none living near

so he moves slow

between the rows of people

escaping stares

coldly running down the nose.

the park bench is his sanctuary

with an advertisement

in a language both foreign and near

there is not a neighbor

who recognizes the echo of his boots.

no friend knows how

he takes his coffee.

beauty and release

obscurity and facelessness.

I am the immigrant.

I have not yet chosen a favored cigarette.

I smile at everyone I see.

I do not know their

pains, trysts, and heartache.

There are no feuds or bad

blood flowing in our veins.

My knowledge is of bus routes,

cheap hotels

and coffee machines.

My scent and walk

strike a sharp note

in the ears of those

walking two-by-two down

corridors and subway steps

the eyes of others

run down the lines and angles

of my slouching stature

and broad frame.

I am the ex-patriot

who drinks too early

on the comforting steps

of the seven-eleven

I am the immigrant.

I smile at everyone I see.

I have not yet chosen a favorite cigarette

so I will wander, rummaging each pack.