Last Friday, I bought a bicycle off of craigslist. Now imagine, how would I ride my fancy bike (even if it is 10 years old, it is still fancy by my standards) in a war zone?
We should feel lucky for roads that are not full of rubble.
On that positive note, I have a poem I'd like to share. It was written by a friend of mine in Milwaukee, John Dubord, who runs a food pantry (Friedens', on Vliet). John is a retired printing executive, Catholic priest, and now, a non-profit director and community activist. Please respond with your comments.
BAGHDAD
He sits, then he stands, hot as
Spit on an angry lip
And doesn’t know how come he rages.
He jettisons his pasts, a pilot
Heading for the crash that comes
At any moment
He jettisons his dreams, and now
The pilot is a Kamikazee.
He casts his planning overboard,
Zips his vest of hand grenades up to his
Chin and enters through the hole.
Outside the hole the dog is dragging by,
Rear legs in the air,
Front legs pawing past the wormholes
In the grass that wipes the ass that
Itches.
The dog surely doesn’t know,
The dog just pulls itself to some
Distraction, satisfaction,
Till the itching goes.
The young man plunges through the hole
And lunges for the trigger,
Just a finger-pull inside his pocket,
Hoping he can focus on the heavenly delights
Until it detonates, he leaves in vapor,
No where angry any more.
