There are times, I have to admit, I tire of you.
I tire of your demands-- the way you take and take and take.
It seems that our efforts to placate you come to naught.
Not for leisure.
We travel because there are hidden places where friends struggle.
And you make it very hard.
"He was dead," a dear one said.
"Perhaps thirty minutes before I got there."
"A shot to the head. I could tell by where the blood was in the cab.
They dragged his body into the bushes. I guess he didn't stop when they ambushed his car."
Who cares about the money?
And how about that fevering one?
Wracked and reeling.
Malaria beating the crap out of her.
Because she just loves hanging out in South Sudan?
Because she has nothing better to do?
And last week,
in the crush of traffic.
The four lanes made six lanes, made eight lanes,
made I-don't-know-how-many lanes.
That man's body
One casual policeman standing
as the rest of us
veered slightly round him.
I turned my eyes and thought of his family
hearing the news.
(However they finally do.)
Who do you think you are?
So ravenously needy.
So brutal, so broken
and so beautiful.
Shall we at least try
to be friends?
-lisa, 26 February, 2013