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POEMS BY CHRIS WAIT

                                 -                                                    

 

Innocent children are playing
shrills in the street
murdered children are laying
still on the street
with their expressions of horror now softened with death
like rags that escaped through a shattered window blown away by a criminal wind
from the east
that will eventually reach the kitchens of New York
the cafés of Paris
and the restaurants of London
in the West
and in the middle we feast our eyes on blood rare meat and screams
and children’s lost dreams

THE BIG SHOW