FROM A FRONT WINDOW
There is the city of glass and money,
over there, but here it comes,
closer with every newspaper.
Unidentified lying spokesmen
interpret the same old photos:
the bloody feet of refugees,
the bloody hands of soldiers.
Here comes someone, not a neighbor,
with a clipboard and a calculator.
Where will we grow children and roses?
Where will we grow older?
Because mothers still tell children
making ugly faces to be careful
or they will harden into one of them,
I am a little less afraid.
When fathers wipe their children’s dirty faces
with handkerchiefs that smell of sweat,
their children do not forget them
easily. I am a gladdened father
learning that, and a calmer son.
And lovers’ bodies make a clumsy knot
just good enough to mend the net.