You don’t want to
hear my sob story.
Believe me, you don’t.
But here I am,
under the phosphorous
and pretty lights
more helpless than afraid
more afraid than enraged.
Below me, in the street
the crowd runs in a circle
because, after all
where can you run to
in this newly walled city?
to the sea? to the boats
waiting with their guns?
No, you run to and fro
holding the hands
of your last children,
waiting for a shred
of decency from this
so called merciful God.
If you didn’t know
you’d think a celebration,
you’d try to catch
the confetti falling from
brightly colored biplanes
urging you to buy.
jam09
