The Price of the Ticket

for James Baldwin

When we traveled in metaphors, through
The clouds of our storms, like
The rightful citizens of New Orleans
Displaced by Katrina, the price
Of the ticket was not our dignity

But the song of our captivity, forced
Into the manifest destiny
Of the diaspora

In search of our new identity, mysteriously
Shipwrecked in this brave new world forever
By way of the Middle Passage. & just as winter
Turns to spring, we will always sing, as long as
We have lungs to vent our children of reason.