Migrating to Elwood City

after Sue Ellen

Here, trees tap-dance like the ghosts
of nomads – red curls, invisible
hands, fear, everything else
that adults cannot see. Confection
across the housetop – do you think
they have kids? Here’s what it’s like
to come from a sugarless world.
Now I migrate between cavities, thread tongue between
lips, hear screaming
down the streets. I promise, invisible
people won’t chase you
down the streets, if they have kids,
anyway. There’s been a heist
at the art museum – is it the immigrant?
the child? the security guard? None
of those, really. I can’t roll
the Mona Lisa into my backpack
or conquer the world. Even spaceships
are made of earth-metals. I wonder how many lies
can thrive in one town. They die
away, soon.