Calluses riddle his palms that were tender once
Marks of the weary
Marks of the worried

Bags under his eyes darken already dark skin
Traces of the teary
Traces of the tired

Pressure weighs down his shoulders, slumping them low
Signs of the broken
Signs of the burdened

A frown on his face sucks the sunshine out of my day
Hints of the sunken
Hints of the saddened

As he sinks into sleep, head on my lap
On my old leather couch,
I'm left stroking his back
In an attempt to relieve the troubles

Of the struggling immigrants
Of the first generation students
Of the brightest stars in the sky that never get to shine because

America. Will. Not. Let. Them.

Its all I can do,
For now.