I will live in a tent in the corner,
near the woods, on the grounds
of someone rich, one of the oligarchs,
who has no idea where his property
begins and ends and has no idea I’m there.
No one will be the wiser, no address,
cell phone, no newsbreaks, no raids,
no deportations, no thought police,
no government thugs with masks,
no email, no communion or high tea.
I will whittle and carve ex-Presidents
Washington, Lincoln, Jefferson,
heroes of the past – Franklin, McCain,
figurines of freedom,
from wood of friendly trees.
I will paint watercolors, the face of the sun
in the white of the magnolias,
build a rock dam in the stream,
grow vegetables, tomatoes, melons
and poetic words as leave-behind.
The hope is, this will be a secret –
the children, squirrels, racoons and I can keep.
No one will trespass the grounds of the powerful,
no one will take me to the camps,
no one will tell me this is something I can’t do.
