It is just something in the sky;
Something I look at every night.
It is fluid; it can swing in any direction,
An egg fried in a donut with a hat for breakfast.
We are in a hurry to get to Misurata
flying by the rubble of what used to be
Gaddafi’s. All his.
Ours now. Wrecked. Rubble and ruin.
In Misurata, you can see
preferred hair products
pointed porcelain shoes
sealed in plastic and on
(“I still have the t-shirt with the blood on it.”)
A baby cries.
pictures of faces of men
women children old young
combatants and bystanders
killed at home in prison by sniper.
killed. killed dead.
Heroes. Mothers. Brothers. Fathers.
We keep the accoutrements of war;
wrecked rubble lunch in shacks along the coast.
Just like folks all over the globe
chase a lamb and hack it up.
Pick up and start again,