Embassy by Tolu Oloruntoba
I.
Guards, relax,
I’m not about to bomb the guardians
of America the Beautiful
I’m only fleeing my sinking ship.
We come like to the Lord-
Frightened, greedy, sick, halt, eager,
in disguise bishop collars…
We come- poor, tired and huddling
Wanting to run away wanting our tumours removed.
we want to see light
We are
Shorn of all but plastic files and our
Visa Appointment Best to
look good for Master,
we shuffle forward
Wanting the dreams tv promised.
II.
We’re newly broke too-
We listened to wise guys who
Promised to smuggle us in-
in photocopiers-
to dis-apparate us inside with instant
digital photography in 5 by 5, white background,
show your ears.
And did you forget a document or two, or didn’t?
We’ll print you another.
Costs only all you have.
They help like when you’re gruesomely injured
on the road and Samaritan first responders arrive to rob you quick.
And others drive past.
Still we accept, buy knowledge with pain
and smile because it hurts so good.
Not tomorrow, never again.
III.
Before the day breaks, the shakedown has won a thousand air miles
Awon boys clean mouth and find the next mark.
This embassy, this toll gate, this, is their own America.
Business is good.
The more desperate you get, the more you lose
The more you play, the more desperate you get
Hey there, America, psst, can you hear?
Ever wonder why they never want to return?
It’s the lottery- we play it more, the worse it gets.
It’s the hopeful goodbyes, coming here
It’s because the less you have, the more you’ll have taken-
even the $160 saved last year
working slave jobs at bus termini.
Shall we return empty?
Don’t sport with me, Mother of Exiles.
You know exactly why
our flag is still there, but scares us.
You know exactly why.
Country is the inferno trying to snuff our light.
Torn into fighting ribbons by
the memory of pain, the knowledge of bravery, the sneer of despair,
are we cowards or are we not?
But wouldn’t you sidestep the puddling blood?
Wouldn’t you flee crushing fists grappling your castle on the beach?
America, beacon at 6.30 am,
we see you in the distance
flashing blue and red beyond the sand bags.
Bid us come? Would you?
Shall we land?
© Tolu Oloruntoba
9.54pm, July 16, 2014
This poem initially was published on Medium.
Guards, relax,
I’m not about to bomb the guardians
of America the Beautiful
I’m only fleeing my sinking ship.
We come like to the Lord-
Frightened, greedy, sick, halt, eager,
in disguise bishop collars…
We come- poor, tired and huddling
Wanting to run away wanting our tumours removed.
we want to see light
We are
Shorn of all but plastic files and our
Visa Appointment Best to
look good for Master,
we shuffle forward
Wanting the dreams tv promised.
II.
We’re newly broke too-
We listened to wise guys who
Promised to smuggle us in-
in photocopiers-
to dis-apparate us inside with instant
digital photography in 5 by 5, white background,
show your ears.
And did you forget a document or two, or didn’t?
We’ll print you another.
Costs only all you have.
They help like when you’re gruesomely injured
on the road and Samaritan first responders arrive to rob you quick.
And others drive past.
Still we accept, buy knowledge with pain
and smile because it hurts so good.
Not tomorrow, never again.
III.
Before the day breaks, the shakedown has won a thousand air miles
Awon boys clean mouth and find the next mark.
This embassy, this toll gate, this, is their own America.
Business is good.
The more desperate you get, the more you lose
The more you play, the more desperate you get
Hey there, America, psst, can you hear?
Ever wonder why they never want to return?
It’s the lottery- we play it more, the worse it gets.
It’s the hopeful goodbyes, coming here
It’s because the less you have, the more you’ll have taken-
even the $160 saved last year
working slave jobs at bus termini.
Shall we return empty?
Don’t sport with me, Mother of Exiles.
You know exactly why
our flag is still there, but scares us.
You know exactly why.
Country is the inferno trying to snuff our light.
Torn into fighting ribbons by
the memory of pain, the knowledge of bravery, the sneer of despair,
are we cowards or are we not?
But wouldn’t you sidestep the puddling blood?
Wouldn’t you flee crushing fists grappling your castle on the beach?
America, beacon at 6.30 am,
we see you in the distance
flashing blue and red beyond the sand bags.
Bid us come? Would you?
Shall we land?
© Tolu Oloruntoba
9.54pm, July 16, 2014
This poem initially was published on Medium.
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