Making a Living

You walk into this life each morning
as if it was the first day over again and you,
one of the new arrivals to this world. Brush
your teeth, straighten your collar in the mirror,
practice the length or shortness of vowels
your tongue still trips over sometimes. Quickly 
self-correct in front of a roomful of eyes. It’s still 
winter but bodies with skin the same color as yours 
are yanked into the streets in their underwear or 
dragged through the broken windows of their cars. 
Long a, short a. Not pliss, please. Inhale, exhale.
A custom is a habit. A customs is an inspection.
You breathe the indifferent air, you know you must.
Keep walking. Living is the oldest war in the world.

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