A poem I wrote many years ago:
(This poem now has a title, after nearly 20 years, thanks to Philip Ohriner .)
Some people live in a perpetual state of exile
But exile is not always
imposed by place
There are those who are left there by the
passage of time
and those who were simply born mis-
fits into this world
All who are in exile however
have something in common:
we carry small pieces of our
native worlds with us
like pebbles
(some are worn smooth,
some remain tenaciously jagged and sharp)
We carry them in our pockets
or sometimes in our shoes.
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