there is no good news

 

this room this bright quilt 

winter waits on the other side 

of these dark windows 

elsewhere cities 

in dust and rubble 

everywhere cities 

 

on fire all this has nothing 

to do with me the naked child running 

through fire has nothing to do with me 

these buildings become dust 

have nothing to do with me

I sit on this bright quilt 

 

blue and white and red 

patterns of flowers and thread 

I drink from my modern porcelain 

blue and white cup a pale 

version of Italian cappuccino 

what is true? who is to blame?

 

I open the bedroom window winter 

is coming as it has here for many 

generations of my line of which 

I am the last these are not my 

children they have nothing to do 

with me

 

who is innocent? they carry 

small broken bodies of children 

holding shoulders holding knees 

the bodies bent loosely heads 

tipped back limp arms dropping 

in the evening I turn down the heat 

~ sb