Such a bad day to find a rope and friend,
such a bad day to hide the sour touch of hunger, of watchful sin.
My faith is not strong enough to be answered. My faith is
broken. And yet I hold on to a bible and a photo.
Outside, I hear a child call, in long and extended
soft yells, of ‘I am lost, where’s home’
This little voice sounds like my daughters voice,
and I almost cry out ‘yes, dear I am here’
but my daughter is state side, at school,
limping her way in a classroom.
my half heart says run to the lost child,
hold her, and help her find a mother.
This voice, so patient and enduring, calling out,
is in the way of war time orders.
The child walks in front of the truck.
My buddy speeds up to run her over.
As he sings the songs of boot camp training
‘Kill them on a Sunday morning,
Bomb them on their way to prayer’
Like usual I join in and don’t care.