Rubble

The rubble is the same,

lying on the ground,

in Ramallah or Manhatten, Kandahar

brick, stone, mortar, gray

The machines dig their way,

men dressed in battle gray respirators and gloves

Work their way

homes and offices and stones, remains,

Exhausted, bent, jumbled, spent

ashes, Fey with once livid dust.

Does it matter where they ply their trade?

As children await parents and parents children

As we sift for signs of loved ones in their settled smoke

As we lift the detritus of dreams and shame

and this nightmare we dare to call reality

Does Heaven hear our prayers?

And which ones?

Chris

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