The Tin Refuge
We stand in anticipation.
We see it not, but know
it moves.
We want it to come, for
my cheeks feel not.
We want it to come, for
my face feels not.
We want it to come, as
it is refuge we seek.
We need it to come, as
my eyes open, frozen
open.
Oh where the hell is it?
The competitors keep coming.
We are starting to suffer.
We are getting agitated.
We look, we see it –
the tin can refuge,
shuffling along.
The doors disappear,
I move, but too slowly,
for the sardines are packed
solidly, and this sardine is
left in the sea.
We wait.
– written by Chich, Chicago's Australian Poet Laureate