REFUGEES PLAY POTATOES
It doesn't go without noting how this
is done. Kids on the curb, sewer lid
to sewer lid, Ringolevio, maybe, or
box-ball, or a fast-break football from
pole to pole. Stumpy Sykes, that little
punk pushing Jimmy Pomeroy around
again, who only fights back if someone's
watching, or better yet, a girl. They sit
on the curbs, sometimes in Summer dresses
even with legs splayed wide apart, dumb
girls. Not yet knowing things, not yet
knowing this world. In ten or fifteen
years they will, five kids between
them each. Another monstrous and
mothering moment, like worlds to
comes and tears to be shed. Lance
Corporal Pomeroy, dead somewhere,
off in a distant desert - blown apart
by some Allah kid's home-made bomb.
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