Refugee

Every day the sun ignores this shabby shelter
on the roadside, it’s all dirty and shaggy here.

I am a refugee. I need this label or I will be killed.
I want to cry, all will listen to this primal of sounds.
 
A noble sound ringing from chest and throat.
Am I an object? A door always slams shut on me.

Some say, I am a category of human, I must remain
like that. I want to feel shame but for what?

Is it a number to be solved? I can’t be willed away.
I know I have to be there, this cruel world needs me.

They need me like an overhead, a period, but certainly
not a comma, a point of no return to my past life.

Some seeds are distributed daily, some old words
scuffle between us, some want to die down with me.