Seven Eleven Poem by Nassy Fesharaki

Seven Eleven

I know Jesse; he is my classmate
He starts "I was a..." I become mouse in wall;
He goes on "a homeless, "

He's limping when walking; his right leg.
"I was raised by fosters..." like others his quest:
"Who gave birth, how and why were questions."

Quiet, no answer and silence "I left home, "
He said and "Found drugs; a homeless on the road, "
In this way he fell down and damaged right ankle.

Rejected and ignored he, needed love and care
Dice in mind he gambled ‘toughest game'
He entered; at counter he shouted: "All cash sale."
(At Seven Eleven)

He is a so called "Indian; Red skin."
He is the first owner of the land in the North
He is Cree, Saskatchewan, by birth; root, and his core

Came sirens and police and the guard
Shoplifter, a homeless; his drug being crack
He escaped by hiding in trash

Police came with the dogs, land and air
He, folded, changed smell like the junk
He was saved; illusion fooled the dogs.

Conscious of stealing, afraid of wrongdoing
He went, said "I have come, surrender! "
"Prison and rehab are choices, " was judgment.

"They would cut my leg off in the first."
He raised hands, habit-change; his leg fixed
He is now student "Won the prize as the best"

I am proud to have him as friend, classmate.