Poetry

In Africa there's a boy brutalized,
Days and nights by, in ghostly jungle camps.
He's stripped, shred by shred, of the civilized
Dashiki he wears when he glims the lamps.
They chop off his hand. Exposed to vermin,
Lice, cold, gangrene, malaria, AIDS, death,
His childhood bashed, he recalls a sermon
About a mother in heaven. With breath
Bated, neck craned, he naifly extends
His toy to you: A silver gas station!
You repose him where the Vintager tends
Canaanite vineyards for the glad nation,
Shouts of mirth rock the baobab in the stars,
And Echinacea salves a brave scout's scars.