Well . . .
as I curl my legs
under me,
in my big over-stuffed chair,
with the warm scented vapor of coffee
flushing my face,
I scroll thru the air waves,
getting my bit of news, and
keeping up with world events.
Pat myself on the back, thank you very much.

So . . .
I am sipping this evening’s
contentment,
as I watch,
with discernable horror,
children
a world away
hoist a M4A1
and other such weapons
to their side.
Ducking thru
and policing
garrisoned streets,
littered with want and
rummaged with chaos,
citizens broadcast
cowering in terror
from beardless young boys
with death chalked on their mind.
I shake my head in disbelief, and
finding the remote
say goodnight to my sons,
telling them to get some sleep, please.

Now . . .
As my house
fills with a chorus of snores,
in that world
dimensions away,
one beardless boy
slaps an old woman down
with a brutal butt of a gun.
She cowers
as her husband is dragged
to a world that I’ve never known,
and she waits for
the hail of shots
in the forever distance.
Steaming vapors of fear
flush her face.
She has no over-stuffed chair
in which to curl her legs
under her grief,
while her body racks in convulsive despair.

And . . .
she lacks
a remote to turn off her fate.

jeanne rene 8/03