Even the crippled, the cringing,
the beggars squatting cross-legged
among balls of dung along
the road, squeezed forth by
shanty walls, have leave to sink
to dappled chairs on public grass;
inhale spring air; accept soft
sunbeams’ kind massage.
those forms behind the wire -- dispersed stray
point-men in an ancient war, two
breaths from barbed despair. If
fortune smiles, beware: the smile
is thin. Cascading disappointments
are foreshadowed there.
Poetica Magazine, Fall 2016