it is august. the

smoke & fumes of

city construction combined with

the glaring sun has left you

dizzy and dazed.

but no matter the times,

there is still an accent

in your voice,

a distinct label that

lets others know:

you are not

one of us.

you dress in the same clothes

day by day and

when you sit in class,

there is nothing but

rumble and jumble that

floats into and out of your ears.

you own less than the

used books you haul around and

the pencils you keep losing.

spending all your time

hidden in the library has

left you thinking:

maybe i don't belong here

after all.

you are nothing but

alone and your

newlywed husband is

oceans across.

there is no familiar face,

no helping hand,

only a dim streetlight

as your guide for the

journey back home.