Minority Poem

In my room, I talk

to my invisible guests:

they do not argue, but wait

Till I am exhausted,

then they slip away

with inscrutable faces.

I lack the means to change

their amiable ways,

although I love their gods.

It's the language really

separates, whatever else

is shared. On the other hand,

Everyone understands

Mother Theresa; her guests

die visibly in her arms.

It's not the mythology

or the marriage customs

that you need to know,

It's the will to pass

through the eye of a needle

to self-forgetfulness.

The guests depart, dissatisfied;

they will never give up

their mantras, old or new.

And you, uneasy

orphan of their racial

memories, merely

Polish up your alien

techniques of observation,

while the city burns.