The burden that I am

The past is the square root of the future
But the present was given to me
Wrapped inside The New York Times -
The ancient scrolls still sit in a corner,
Waiting, gathering dust

To be me is a burden
Like a simile that continually
Escapes the writer.

I live below my expectations
Because I suffer from acrophobia -
I swallow my pride to avoid starvation.

I morph words with my soul -
So my soul is worn out
Like the soles on the sneakers of
Allan Sillitoe’s long distance runner.

Words are the numbers
In the game of roulette. I struggle
With this gambling addiction.

In Italy, I joined three strangers at their table
Because they offered me wine.
After countless hours we founded
“The Florence Society of the Artistic Four.”

In Miami, drinking orange-carrot juice
In a poor Hispanic barrio, I looked at
My non - English speaking father and founded
“The Oppressed Society of my Latin People.”

About Steve Castro: Keen on exploratory research, the former Los Angeles Dodgers intern has walked on four continents: Africa, Asia, Europe and the Americas. The poet has been recently published in Grey Sparrow Journal and ASKEW, a poetry journal.

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