Day 198

In the tent camps, is the sound of moaning
heard over the sound of the drones?
And the sound of laughter?
What do you lose when you have nothing?
Whose shoes are those?  Whose bag of clothing?
A child comes crying to the medical tent.
He is wounded, his leg is bleeding, a flower
of blood is opening in his chest.  He is crying
for his bicycle: it was new, it was red.  It was fast.
Maybe it was the fastest bicycle in the world.
Maybe it could have taken the boy
far from the bombing, far from the endless lines
for food.  Maybe it could have taken him
into the sea, where he’d watch all the fears unstick,
drift away.  Strands of blood like ribbons, tributaries.