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.  


                                                       We are

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