Day 525/Ceasefire Day 55

The boy is running across stones
that used to be the front yard of his house.
His mother tended flowers, vegetables.
every day she would come inside
with armfuls of color, green or yellow
squash.  The boy is running,
whispering the names
of his friends, looking for them
under stones, as though they are only playing 
some hiding game.  He sits 
on a concrete slab, takes a piece of bread
out of the pocket of his jacket, breaks it
in two, stretches his right hand
as though there is someone to take it.
Whispers a name.  Whispers, Here.  Eat.
He leans, fills the space, takes a bite
from the proffered half slice, whispers
a few more words to his friend
who isn’t there, who will never
be there, whose name,
like the names of all the others,
haunts the empty air.