An Attempt @ Poetry

Still the kids on buses, We

run nervous fingers through Our hair,

trade backpacks for dirt fields and stare

at coastal waves, a sparkling sea.

…..

Still a child with matches, I

pick one out, touch it with the light,

set fire to Our neighborhood tree

and sleep under a burning sky.

…..

Still the Adults don’t seem to care,

talking too quiet for Us to hear.

We chase strays down the alleyways.

In a wine-red glow, number Our days.

…..

No longer kids on buses, We

drop sizzling cigarettes in the sea.

We laugh as water turns red as blood,

unaware of what We have done.

…..

Sold on red wine and sleeping pills,

Our TV mutters in the dark,

reminiscent of what birds would sing

in the trees before the inferno — cold hearts

give out last in the fire.

…..

Nothing left to us in wills.

Adults will never care to say, but

why are their answers given hushed?

It comes to me! One day, today,

that They

are kids, too, frightened by

what They have done — and what it cost.

…..

No answers in the dried-up sea.

No voices in the cratered street.

And in the trees, no birds will sing

When there’s nobody left

To drive the bus.