unequipped for catastrophe
she sits, stripped,
on a bench made of plastic
her eyes red; all the tears squeezed out of them
how darkly amusing it is
when those who have not seen life
must start living
this new world that was always there; and they so small
she sits,
and hopes someone will see her,
touch her, hold her,
tell her that it's a dream
that the world is fair
that the sun does always shine
that fear and sadness don't stick around so much longer after the deed is
done that this is all just as impossible as it seems
she knows now
she knows how not to trust
she knows how not to smile
how not to love
having never heard the music
until the song stopped
having never drunk the water
until the fountain ceased to flow
Poem © 2000 Russell Moore, all rights reserved
