Kris Spencer
Porte de la Chapelle
his dreams are boats
in this watched city
they put spikes in doorways
a concrete pyramid
in a window well
the benches are round
he wonders why
they want to make
this place of dreams
a sprung trap
he has never seen
the sea he wants to cross
he remembers goats
perched in
olive trees
staring out
sleeping on cardboard
beneath the underpass
there is always
the movement of the trains
like waves crashing
everyone is covered here
his turquoise coat
and pink shawl
tied in the Tuareg way
he has his father’s face
lined by years of searching
his mother’s hope
hidden in a scarf