The Great Migration

We find ourselves holding hands
Like children
Heading towards a busy crossing
Determined to cross
But frozen in our tracks
In headlight
Not from signals
But from signs pointing in every direction but home
We know the way home
From memory
Like the squiggly lines in our palms
Etched from ancient riverbeds
That have long dried out
We have made this journey
A thousand times in our sleep
With feet made of rubber tires
And soles packed with fresh tar
And, we have danced
In the middle of this street
Like children
Kicking dust in our own eyes
From the celebration
Ducking beneath trucks and taxi cabs
Running bare feet
With sunken eyes and wild hair
Caught between our teeth
Yet, we find ourselves inching towards
The divergence
Holding hands
Waiting for another sign?

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