Day 253

The road strewn
with pieces of lives:  a towel, a tv, 
A pair of running shoes, debris that is
unrecognizable but there are kids
in the boredom of late afternoon
between bombings, playing
in the road, attempting
to fit one shattered thing to another. 
The road strewn with old tools
and pieces of new ones.  Smartphones.
Faucets.  These were the things
we lived with.  This
was the way we lived.
These were the objects of our love
and of our solitude; these
were what we thought we could use
to construct our days.
And among these things 
lie bodies.  Among these things,
a severed arm.  A hand.  Will anyone come,
one of the kids asks,
and sew this hand
back onto whoever has lost it?
The kids stop their playing,
look up to see what sound it is
that comes from the sky.
And how will they find that person?
And where will they get
a needle that can do this?
And with what thread?