hastily packing the car to the scent of smoke,
hoping for a change of wind
as we stare through the rearview.
It’s not us,
scanning the field desolated by drought,
recalling bountiful yields of years gone by.
It’s not us,
picking through shards of rubble with cracked hands,
mouths dry with anticipation of loss.
It’s not us,
our homes swept like debris across the beach,
clothes clinging to wet skin, wondering where we’ll sleep.
It’s not us,
wearied with the wearing-on of war,
huddled in cold dark, the boom of bombs our lullaby.
It’s not us.
And so we watch TV. Turn the tap and take for granted
everything we have. Perhaps we’ll send a check,
mouth a prayer,
or curse the corporations for their greed.
What else can we do while waiting for our turn?
Alfred Fournier
.