And nothing happens.
The men on the other side
Do not say a word.
On our side, people's
Shouts die down, and suddenly
It's as quiet as
A graveyard. Someone
In the crowd begins to cough.
Unsigned paper falls.
A tiny boy tugs
On his father's sleeve and whines
"Papa, I'm thirsty."
I watch as the boy
Is shushed and men start to turn.
"What is this?" A man
Asks the other side.
"Will you not make peace and live
Without this fighting?"
A man steps forward.
I can barely see his tall
Figure through gate holes.
"I'm afraid we don't
Trust you," he mutters, scowling.
On our side, whispers
Erupt among men.
One reaches for his pocket.
I close my eyes tight.
YOU ARE READING
War of Cities
PoetryWhat's left of the U.S. after the initial fighting is broken down into large cities. Resources are limited. 11-year-old Sura is caught in the middle of the mess-- there's violence in the streets and her Papa's gone away to fight. Hear about the horr...
