Third Postcard From Iraq - Poem by Sandy Hiss
The moon above Baghdad
floats lazily atop a veil
of smoky-grey clouds. Pigeons
sitting on the streetlamps
blend in effortlessly,
shaking another day
of black dust
from their feathers.
They have no desire to fly
in any direction
or converse with a stoic moon.
Natives to the dirty sand,
both have seen the color of death
staining their hearts with apathy.
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