The old man used to be a preacher, but
in good faith had to turn in his cassock
because he no longer believed in anything.
He mumbles now, admitting that he cannot
say he believes he’ll live again.
If asked he’ll say we teach our young to
be fair, play fair, as though the world were
fair. Maudlin now, he observes that
we can kiss away a boo boo or wipe away
a tear, but
the buffer does not outlast reality, , or is it
just the luck of the draw? Lotta bad luck,
then, for many. “Refugees, thy name is grief.”
But with a little smile he reckons that
we avoid madness in the arms of sleep.