sense of freedom

drinking beer
while steak
is sizzling,
and the sunset
in the grill
of streaked clouds,
this is my freedom
in the backyard,
after I put in a hard
days work for a
dying paycheck,
stacking the bills
I retrieved from
the mailbox
on the computer
desk again,

the boss how he
last walked past me
brushing shoulders,
like numbers that
never get reached,
and not knowing
me by name,

this is freedom
to me
as the beer
the war within

as mr. crowley’s
skinny dog behind
continuously barks
at me through the
wood-rib fence,
as the gun is loaded
and hid under the bed,
as the man
four houses down
is yelling at his wife
to put clothes on
and take clothes off
the clothesline,

where this grass
grows is mine,
this piece of land
this old framed
house mine,
this piece of mind

but the freedom
will never be
I just borrow it
from time
to time,
to give me a
sense to know
I bleed, breath
cry and die,

isn’t this the
human way?

Anthony Liccione lives in Texas with his two children. His poems have appeared in several print and online journals and he has four collections of poetry books that go unread.

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