Ximena

My security and hope, stretches out on lovely days, I know I’ll always cope, will go home soon, in a sun that flays, all the pockmarked yellow stone, down New York’s City slopes, can feel its rays, splice all of Brooklyn’s ropes, when evening’s blue, debt are paid, so many with their dues, do my parents know, how I pray, indifferent skies unfold, clouds chase by like schooners, who needs a quota of praise, I am not a loser, to wonder at my gains.