assembly

we have come to the Whitney
our pasts inside us

silent
like the dogwood flower

a band of sculptures
march the veranda
some small
some large
all migrants, ex-captives

the clank of their chains
still shuffles the High Line
one foot fear, one foot courage
one step fear, one step courage

they join in assembly
one figure, an ape of a figure
big African lips
on his shoulder, a bindle
not of clothes or belongings
but of empty food cans

I remember when father
lived in our car
ate from cans
he too, emancipated