New America

There’s a man in a turban on the corner.

He is juggling three bowling pins,

all striped like peppermint candy canes.

And I pause for a moment to watch these

acrobatics, the trapeze between calloused palms.

 

He came to America in 1983 with his sister,

a girl who sentenced herself to maid service.

Back home his mother is dying of cancer,

a woman who only wants to kiss his rosy cheeks

one last time. He has a daughter now, too;

she started first grade last Tuesday.

She excels in art; her teachers praise her daily

as she glues macaroni to maps, charting new

adventures. Her mother was flattened by a

tractor on a family visit last summer.

 

I am always amazed at these jugglers.

Bowling pins, of all things, seem rather

precarious and unwieldy to me. But there

he is, flipping them through the stale breeze

of autumn. I nod at him, smile, offer some bills.

Reviews

[Beau Maysey]

Beautiful story that I can only assume is based on a personal experience. This poem has the same flow as I've seen in some professional ones, so good job and keep practicing. Might have a 'follow-up' critique comment but for now just wanted to say that I really like this work.