The old dog is snoring like an oboe. We have so much
comfort, so much gratitude.
But a large piece of wind
plays me the anguish of people like long-distance calls,
extinguished in a midnight vigil where no moon rises,
where daylight is an infinity away. Maybe hope rests,
tingling, in a different neighborhood, one of unknown
zip code. It’s harsh, isn’t it, to keep war’s terrible face
in mind as we share a magnificent meal of plenty
and grace as all the suffering in the world clamors below
every forkful in our home.
The sleeping dog
moans. If I were a person
of shallow religion I might quote
unfounded platitudes here about “working in mysterious
ways” or “everything happens for a reason”
as videos are blurred so all of us screen-watchers
drift past the horrors like a susurration of so many
starlings.
Can we grasp the entire picture? This is how we have to do
it
in America, with mouths full of unblinking compassion.
With holes in our collective stockings of serving ourselves
first.
With hearts the size of suffering nations holding onto every
beat toward peace.
J. Pratt-Walter, © 2023
