Don't Worry

Silently,

metal shatters the window

beside my bed,

piercing the flesh

of the little old woman

who watches me sleep

every night.

I do not hear

the report,

only the “thwup”

as it fashions

it’s hole

through the middle

of her chest.

But she does not die,

nor will she ever,

for she is but a doll,

my Babushka,

a treasure since childhood

& respite for me

in this troubled place.

The streets are quiet,

the only witnesses

to the night’s transgressions

a few dandelions

poking through

the sidewalk cracks,

ubiquitous

in their ability to survive

even the trampling

of crowded feet.

She’s already

a patchwork of repairs.

What’s one more

tiny swatch

added to her quilt?

I should dig out

the bullet

from the wall

& glue it

up inside

as memento

to her tribulations.

I glance at

the alarm clock.

2am.

It can wait

‘til morning,

assuming I can still

fall asleep,

of course.

Ah, the city—

never a dull moment

even when asleep.

Probably shouldn’t

share this with mom

when next we speak.