?Difference?
There is no difference really,
The Iranian professor who said too much,
The six year old Warsaw boy in the picture,
The sadly drawn and flawed Raymond Carver
short story characters.
Tonight, we are all crying and cried for.
We all have been subjected to another?s
Inadequacies and quicksand minds,
concrete and sunk words.
Words rooting gardens with a formulaic
symmetry, and small pricked hair and
homogeneous lines and veins.
Spiked hairy and
ruinous.
Our ?want tos? are all the same really.
The dog left out night after night
on a nine by nine slab
bars just a little bit higher
than reached by paw.
The Korean woman who silks my false nails,
Those on a plane as the hydraulics fail,
The man who is promised seventy-two virgins,
just to walk into a small resort hotel
with a bomb.
We are all crying and cried for.
You know, he really doesn?t cry anymore,
or do anything when you pass
or look or pay attention or stare or call.
The dog,
that is.
The rest,
I am not sure how much they cry
anymore.