Day 336

Which of us can know
whether this day will be our last?
The eight year old boy
is talking to the reporter
about wanting to be able to eat,
drink water, play with his friends,
go to school.  Like it was
before, he tells her; but before
is a long time ago, a long time away,
a place he can go to now
only in longing.  I listen
to his small, soft voice
on the radio, recorded
yesterday, and ask myself
if he is still alive today.
He had been talking
about the sky, filled with drones
but also with birds.  He wants to live
like the birds, he said, the sky
is not crowded with sewage and death 
like the ground, the streets.