AN EXILE

Praised be the blues
you play the strings
on your Catalan guitar
over the sea coast
when you arrive at sixteen
from exile with your family
off shore by the lighthouse
in shawls of a refugee
at Ellis Island
clothed in mystery
in a humble summer night
a Chinese guy offers
you a Cantonese green tea
with buttered toast
by the flapping winds
in the new home harbor
by a chorus of birds
who sing of your exodus
in your first poetic words
of lyrics uttered in broken
English grammar
from obscure sources
and spoken as you hammer
your unlocked tongue
connected to a musical love
with a picture of Manhattan
above the sun at the dock
with your token history
now pictured in camera
as a Hallelujah
and Glory be is sung.