Port-au-Prince

I see him with his worried smile,
Rising, going up the stairs, into
The plane, another life, behind
The letter, as I read, my own
Life here, surrounding me.
The power's down. The fan
Has stopped. The stacks of
Yellowed papers sit in folders
On my metal desk, the toothpick
Bodies moving past my window
Just above the street. He isn't
Worried anymore. He's full
Of fury. "Father," he has written,
"How can you continue being
Part of that regime?" I hope he'll
Never understand, and, living,
Sated, in a city I don't think I'll
Ever see, he'll dream of saving
All of us from what is apt
Always to be, and I won't
Have to answer him. I've done
What little I could do, put out
My hand and closed my eyes,
To save the one who mattered
Most from starving on that street.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 15 times
Written on 2013-01-27 at 14:28

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