(poem against ghettocentrism)

by Ralph Dumain

Baby fingers against that old flint,
     rubbing and rubbing without result,
     aspiring to light
          only one room in the house—
               the abandoned guest room,
               the basement, the attic—
     unconscious, so unconscious
     of the true whereabouts
          of futility.

Written 18 July 1996, 7:45 pm EDT
© 1996, 2000 Ralph Dumain. All rights reserved.

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Uploaded 22 September 2000

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