the dust on my feet

it started in the Walrus
fifty pound responsibly-sourced glossy white
black serif font neatly on top stacked
three columns per page
“students for sale” was the headline
ads for beguiling new fiction at its side

the fiction here was institutions 
calling it internationalization
reality being agents trafficking 
in illusion

third world we used to call it 
now betting the family farm on post-secondary
for the chance to be first to prosper
from subsistence farming to financial assistance
one-third the gdp but three times the tuition

surprised i was 
but by my bedside
i laid the article 
about a 

far-off problem 
worlds away

it was the wise king who said 
all are from the dust, and to dust all return
but last thursday 
someone breathed life 
into the nostrils of the Walrus
out from pulped tree and black ink
came Henry before me
from fiction to fact to figure

we were on a dessert tour
navigating kensington market’s narrow roads
storefront awnings like a canopy of 
trees sheltering us
outside of panchos bakery
chillin’ before churros 
(he chose strawberry)

Henry’s story poured forth
he was to be 
an electrical engineer for sure
but was brought down by racial slur
deep depression determined decisions
fiends for friends twisted the
pursuit of permanent residency
into a chase for the dragon
spiralling to the streets near lakeshore

with the resolve of one 
who had crossed oceans
Henry sent slithery smaug back 
to his greedy lair
now working under the table
grasping for crumbs
to nourish his climb 
over the invisible 
blockade from ghost 
to gainfully employed

no longer a far-off problem
but a young man in our care
can’t settle for pages at my bedside 
for proximity powers the heartbeat
of a dust-ied life

Written by Scott Moore
Illustrated by Landon Wideman

Inspired July 2021