Art Gephyr

My Home

I am lost.
My home unrecognizable.
The structures are the same--
bricks and mortar have not moved,
the trees a little taller,
perennials bloom the same colors,
the pool still a perfectly inviting teal.

But strangers occupy the bodies
of family, of friends
of neighbors.
Strangers occupy the bodies
of citizens in restaurants,
grocery stores, stop lights.
Closet whisperers step out
to become truth tellers,
freedom fighters, and
sages of righteousness.

Over a cocktail
a tongue loosens,
"My Mexicans complain
after a hard day's labor
that they have no retirement.
I point to their soda--
There's your retirement, wasted",
as heads nod over the foolish squandering.
Meanwhile, his preteen daughter spends
thousands of his middle-class money
on high-class cosmetics.

Voices rise for the oppressed white male.
Gun sales flourish.
The antidote to a black male president.
The antidote to the educated elite.
I am silenced.
The tombstone for my opinions
bears the label "SJW"
inscribed by those who defend
the Second Amendment's right
to trample the First's.
This is my home,
and I am no longer welcomed as kin
but spurned as the enemy.