Four in the Morning

Nothing is reconciled when a young boy

is skateboarding through the neighborhood

at four in the morning, as I sip my Diet Coke

and smoke another cigarette.

It’s wheels crushing the pavement rises above

the hymns of the crickets, and I am left

wondering if the bombs in Iran have killed

another young boy who was destined to

fight for his father instead of sailing through

the night alone with the wind on his face

and the streetlights illuminating his

road to freedom.

How unfair it all seems when ten more

minutes whirl by, and there is not a

single reason for the gap in what their

legs must do to obey the lies of destiny.

There simply can be no conclusion as I step

back inside my house and cozy up in my

bed while another lacks a pillow.

And as the night stretches on, it must

be afternoon where the fight continues

to destroy the freedom of little wheels

seeking to stretch the earth and avoid

burying the dead.