Exile    poems by Matthew Freeman February 2021


As I have gone
from being The Little Drummer Boy
to the sodden criminal,
wondering in
this lonely little room
how it might have been possible
for Jakob Dylan
to have written a song about me,
the birds have stayed the same.

The rivers have stayed the same.
It’s fun to deconstruct the Eastern Discourse.

And it’s true—
parked desolate across the street
as a world-wide pandemic rages
is the exact version
of a car my buddy drove in high school.

I know that God loves me,
but I don’t know why.

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