A Guest In Someone’s Home

An ambassador.

A mission.

A passing carnival.

An indecision.


When your born in the in between,

betwixt visible and unseen,

you’re always a guest in someone’s home.


At first you’re quite the trend,

a veritable sensation.


The way you roll your Rs,

in that authentic way.

The way you drink Rakija,

“You’re one of us for sure!”


How your hand glides

elegantly in that

oh-so perfect circle.

Hips sway

just the way

the local girls do.


Your manners are unparalleled,

your mannerisms sublime.

For just a moment,

a tiny second,

you think

you’ll stay

for all time.


But stay for just a while longer,

another day and you’ll know,

that one born to all and none,

is forever a guest in someone’s home.


Soon the luster fades,

and the spots begin to show.

For a leopard amongst the zebras

is not a welcome thing.


The Rs that were just right

now betray a foreign tongue.

Those eyes shaped so perfectly

reveal windows to another history.

A smile, once welcoming,

is now the tell-tale grin of the enemy.


Swaying hips

display tilts and rolls of other influences.

Manners falter

when traditions beckon and

flips of a wrist display

fingers gleaned from other



Hair cascading to hips

from a land of long ago,

point to a skirt

much too short

to be accepted here.


The arch of a nose

signifying belonging,

is sold down the river

by lips, blood red, dripping

with Western zeitgeist.


Stay a little longer

and you’ll see…


A rabbit cannot nestle

in a snake’s hole.

A poodle cannot nap

on a parrot’s perch.

A bear does not hibernate

in the lair of a mole.

And a stallion cannot eat the seeds

of a chickadee’s birch.


So embrace those glittering moments

of acceptance and celebration.

Drink the aroma of friendship and love.

Absorb the warmth of a hearth

not your own.


For a child born

in the in between,

is forever a guest

in someone’s home.




The Liberated Polyglot

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