I'm from paved over cow paths
leading to a central common
where modern stands side by side with
historic and holds the pride of hub to the rest.
My people came here from elsewhere
and left the map of those lands on my face
so I never quite fit, didn't look like most others.
My wandering ancestors
came from other places searching
for what they thought more important
than home, willing to make a new home
rather than live without, or who were driven
out by those who wanted what they had.
It all left its mark, so I call one place home
but search ancestral homelands to find
those left pieces of me to make me whole.
Meanwhile, my displaced people displaced others
to claim what they had, as if one could have
what another had by the wish or the taking.
My heritage is immigrant and for how long homeless?
For Poets United with the theme of Heritage Day. I took the photo in Boston during a visit in August.
