Poem

Armed With Words

Shit is a good word to choose

when you lock your keys

in the car.  It goes well with

a golf ball shanked or

two Jehovah’s Witnesses

appearing at the

door.  It performed admirably

Tuesday in service

to a young Syrian man

from Homs, his breathless, furtive

phone interview with

the BBC preempted

by a fusillade

of bullets fired from a

machine gun mounted

on a Russian made tank, a

vile, derided word,

heroic under fire.