“Ready, you’re not; here I come,”
snarls wet Winter, having mercilessly
counted to only eight
—years old.
A parentlessly invisible child’s
camouflaged between Vali-e Asr’s
idling buses—canopied by an endless
row of embowering gallows-to-be—
inside an exhaust’s embrace.
The visible are now boarding his untoy
bus. I hate that all I can do to help him is
end the poem here.
