The Underground Jail-road

I remember draping bath towels
over the curtain rods.
I didn't have faith
the venetian blinds
were enough to stop nosy people
from trying to look into
my cool sick world.
What would they see?
What was I ashamed of?
What, exactly, was I trying to
hide?
I remember hearing
flashes of light
trying to sneak in
through the cracks
of the windows thinking
SWAT -
finally decided to simply
ring the doorbell.
No one was ever there.
No one was ever coming.
No one of importance,
even cared.
That's just what a brown boy
like me gets for trying to be
Tony Montana in a suburb -
a fake green-card to a world
with geeky white neighbors
conspiring to block-watch
and cock-block
me
all the way back to the banana boat
boat-slip.
And in the meantime,
conspiring to hit me in the head
with lawn jarts and calling it all
target practice for the picnic
every time I come out
to wash my ride for the tenth time
in a week.
My only hope left?
Finding a white wash cloth
because it's the closest thing
I have to a flag
and waving it.
At that point,
the only other echo of
my pretend country's anthem
anyone will ever hear
in this neighborhood again,
is the sound of
toilet water descending
as my imaginary boys are
flushing -
the rest of his shit.
The problem with waving a
white washcloth
is simple:
I've wiped so much
sweat
off my forehead with it
already -
I think I've
removed the color
of my own skin.
I am my only

true

little friend.

The Cute Mexican at the Bus Stop

The Mexican stood soaking to the bone -
no awning to protect him from the pour.
With my umbrella, him there all alone -
I offered half, the clouds cried all the more.
He slid beneath, a smile raised his face.
Inside my bag I had an extra coat.
He didn't have a one, that sad disgrace.
I left it there, I didn't want to gloat.
He moved in closer and his arm grazed mine.
He told me he was sorry he was cold.
The stream of water by the curb, my sign -
the Rio Grande's been crossed by men as bold.
The bus I missed just water down the drain -
my best to dry his poor wet back - of rain.

Alien

You tell me all your dreams fell to one side -
my country doesn’t have a place for you.
You’re giving up on counting tears you’ve cried -
the interest on resentments you’ve accrued.
Costa Rica calls your name, Amigo.
It’s there you started out and now belong.
The reasons you can’t stay are yours to know -
but you believe the States have done you wrong.
America will shine on as you leave here -
reminding you you have yourself to blame.
You’ll say it is the country of the queer -
as the few you’ve touched, in time, forget your name.
You came expecting to become a king -
too proud to settle for some lesser thing.

Bryon D. Howell is a poet currently residing in New Haven, Connecticut. He has been writing poetry for a great number of years. Recently, work of his has appeared in poeticdiversity, Red River Review and The Quirk.