And The Lord Said, You Are Home.

I Follow The Shepherd For I Have The Brain of a Sheep

Every Sunday

at four

traffic stops

some cars

too far back

honk impatiently

unable to see

 the crowd in black

the six men

arms linked

carry the casket

no one ever cries

everyone seems

just as impatient 

as the cars stuck

behind the other cars

wishing those six men

were stronger

capable

of walking six paces faster

with the chunks of wood

and empty body

of someone they once knew

weighing down on their shoulders

I watch girls

dressed in black short dresses

probably worn

some night out

with fishnet stockings

tucked inside their black Ugg boots

and men wearing

black tracksuits

with white sneakers

as I cross the street

a blast goes off in a near alley

and Bertille says, 

"Ah we are now in Afghanistan"