Of course I do not fit.
I still write with pen and ink.
I think long and slow and hard about things
before I climb on my soapbox.
I change my mind.
I am not quite holy enough for the sacred,
or profane enough for the heathens.
Mostly I am too efficient,
except when I am dark and stillborn.
I use too many commas, I am told.
I pray often,
I do both well.
My youthful education overcomes me from time to time,
little of it good,
but most of it useful if I have the patience to stop.
something I desire,
but do not do well.
I almost fit everywhere.
I do almost everything well enough
I talk rarely, but too long, and far too complexly
to be worth listening too.
People grow impatient.
I grow impatient too.
Constantly filling my application to be more
than a legal alien,
and never quite succeeding.
About this poem.
A rant. Nothing more. But I suspect someone else sees themselves in it. That’s the way it works. And that is why it is titled “Legal Aliens” with an “s” at the end. There are lots of us.