We played in the shadow Of murderers’ at work, Kneading soldiers out of mud, Stepping on them When we were done playing. Girls walking the streets Gave us bread to eat. An old dog with a limp Kept us warm at night As we huddled in doorways. My friends, my playmates, We never saw the dead, Only the birds scatter After we heard the gunshots And ducked our heads. This poem appeared in the September 13, 2012 issue of the magazine.
Little brook, running past my house, I like the tune you hum to yourself When night comes, And only the two of us are awake. You keep me company So I don't fear The darkness round my bed And the thoughts in my head Flying crookedly like bats Between the old church and the graveyard. This poem appeared in the September 13, 2012 issue of the magazine.
All we got, mister, Is an empty bowl and a spoon For you to slurp Great mouthfuls of nothing, And make it sound like A thick, dark soup you’re eating, Steaming hot Out of the empty bowl. This poem appeared in the September 13, 2012 issue of the magazine.