“At least one person killed,” the newspaper wrote,
and I heard a still, small voice crying
in the back of the bus that I sat on
as I read the news.
It was a beautiful child
who hadn’t slept well the night before,
who didn’t know what had happened,
who has still never known peace,
and who began to wail
when his mother tried to comfort him.
He wasn’t sad.
He was just tired.
In the middle of this city,
there are lots of happy, tired children
who drive their mothers mad with “why”
who didn’t know that two blocks away,
God was filled with holes
and surrounded by medics
who were trying to keep Him alive,
who won’t sleep well for a while.
