Labor

Labor

 

Loud rumbling bikes.  Smothering solder guns.

Rusting sculptures. The toil of women willing

To bake their skin to keep their children safe.

Three sides of a square cluttered with papers

Strewn accidentally.  Not enough to hold life

Together for one nomad.  He moves again.

Dread locks us.  Prisoners still dream.  Cracked

Paint reminds pigeons to fly.  Hot bricks scorch

The feet of toiling women.  Can we keep children safe?

The operation fails.  Feet hurt just for standing.

Time.  No one has the time.  Even our souls rebel,

Not enjoying this new supposed form.  Life?

Smoke diffuses.  Today’s medicine is not

Quick enough to slow us down to past paces.

Toiling women.  Smiling children.  Non-time.