New old poem
They’re Digging
In rubble and rocks they find
An arm, a book, a scarf, a ring.
In a pyramid of smoke they
Count parts and pieces
A finger, a leg, two toes, a head.
Strap the screamers to gurneys
And continue digging
To the center,
Where there are no bombs
Or terrorists.
Digging until the bones become relics.
When the last bomb dropped,
It left a page
We paid for
While paving the road
With good intentions.