The Bat

Velvet triangles, shiny black buttons

and soft pink hands 

that grip the underside of my window.


He is peaceful, finally fully unafraid

while sleeping while only I watch

his steady daytime slumber.


He knows not of hatred, fear, or injustice; 

only days and nighttime mark the ongoing life

of my brown bat.


Soft and steady, palms lightly grasping

and sticking as if designed to fit here

on my home, among the metal, paint, and potted plants.


An alien at home

never stopping to wonder about the trucks, tailcoats, and towers around him

while these toiling madmen take root in his homeland.


He only sleeps, unguarded and accepting

these new madmen who have decided to stay and build here in his home.

with their houses, metal, paint and potted plants.

This poem is about: 
Our world


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