Last night,
flattened by the weight
of this week’s worry,
I was looking at a children’s book—
and happened on a page that read:
“And Max, the king of all wild things,
was lonely, and wanted to be
where someone loved him best of all.”
I began to cry at those words:
suddenly, inexplicably, sad
in this week of protest, police and politics:
sad for all the lonely people,
for the forgotten
the unheard, the left behind;
crying for the frightened, beaten,
trampled-down, no-place-left-to-go
people; for the mourners, the survivors,
who are not, and never have been
kings (of wild things or tame),
who are not, and never have been
heard,
who are not and never have been
recognized,
or celebrated,
who are not and never have been
accepted
for who they are in this wide, wide world
where all men (supposedly)
are created equal, and
are endowed by their creator
with certain inalienable rights—
Like life.
Like liberty.
Like the pursuit of happiness.
Like having someplace, some homeplace
where someone loves them
best of all.
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