Mi portóncito

My little gate that swings me across the same arc across the tile patio floor;

the cold metal gray bars pressed to my face, hanging on to

Mi portóncito- the one taking me home

takes me to all the places and people that I’ve known and loved
            Seen Come and Go

Through the in-between-bars I can see the familiar creaky swings fly high
        the same swings that brought me so close to touching the leaves, las hojas to write my story, with my bare feet

Flip-flops tossed aside, reaching, stretching towards this little piece of freedom

When it opens, my Portón opens the world to me, and takes me home

Secure, strong, forgotten
Taken for granted

Mi portóncito 

Say you're a president.

Not a king.

If that's true then what's happening in Venezuela? 

You removed a ruthless dictator, yes,

but you just replaced him with another.

And what happened to Renee Good the other day?

The mother of 3,

the poet with a whistle.

Be honest with yourself,

you're a king that's obsessed with power.

If you say you're not,

then prove it.

Nobody will believe you otherwise.