Day 308

A father is bouncing his two little boys
on the canvas dome of the tent
they’re living in.  The children —
toddlers — giggle, squeal.  It’s summer.
The father laughs too.  His eyes shine,
his words to the boys are full of joy.
What do they know of devastation?
For the moment, no planes.  No bombs.
He bounces his sons as though
they were on a bed, a couch, the way
children are bounced by their parents.
The children delight in it the way
children delight.  What the father
knows, what he fears, he is not
revealing.  Now and then
he looks away from them
at the sky, that, for
the moment, is only blue.