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In a dust try hut
Under a hot red sun
A small child dies,
Arms like sticks
Legs the same.
A chest with bones
No thicker than a chickens.
Eyes wide with surprise
And the flies.
Not far away
A young man cries
And the gun he carries
Falls away.
His eyes also watch with surprise
As the sun fades into darkness
And the earth turns away.
In a bed,
With clean white sheets
Another man lies,
And listens to the traffic
Dull, down in the street.
He also cries
As he dies
With roses at his feet.
His death is not less
Not a soldier
Nor a starving child.
Just a gay
Who worked the streets.
Pomona February 1988
Copyright © Jennifer Magrath | Year Posted 2012
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