Someone on the other end knows my name, maybe
barely speaks English. “Who’s calling?” My ears strain
to be polite until I’m sure enough to be rude.
They’re talking another war, another 10-year skirmish
somewhere far away for young boys, and girls now,
for old men generals with chess board tactics
fighting for another Taco Bell on another corner
of the planet far away from Wall Street,
from the here and now—from these good cows.
Another child goes missing. Some crazy with a gun
goes hunting at a school, or a shopping mall
or a drive-by to electrify a night across the tracks,
children huddled under beds I don’t want to know about.
Someone on the other end is selling something for a living
I can’t imagine pays any more—than in profanity.
drycrikjournal 