My Own Kind
by: Carol Wang
Despite the frigid stares, the frowns, the crinkled brows,
I slip my hand into your calloused palm,
The hair on you arms tickling mine,
Your sweet citrus scent drifting under my nose,
Your booming laughter filling the air...
shunning their looks of surprise, disapproval, disgust.
Who are they to give a damn?
To judge, to condemn what they nothing of.
I walk with my head high, my back straight,
I, protected within your walls
of carefree liberality,
watch their faces pass by,
illuminated by the City lights,
their voices droned out by the honking of the car horns,
their shadows disappearing into the herd of bodies bustling by,
I see their faces,
faces that look so much like my own.
But they are nothing like me,
and I, nothing like them
for I am my own kind.