Day 921

Later this soldier
will brag to his friends
how many he killed:  thin,
hungry dogs in the street,
dogs who once belonged
to someone; lost now,
abandoned, scavenging
for food.  Target practice,
the soldier thinks: practice
for when the three teenage boys
turn the corner, laughing, chatting
with one another. He shoots.
Two killed instantly.  One
collapsed in the street, heavily wounded.
The soldier saunters off, lighting
a cigarette.  A witness
picks up the living boy,
carries him, screaming, to a hospital.
Meanwhile the two others
lie still. Two boys,
thirteen and fourteen:  their blood
mingling with the blood
of the dogs, who, like
the children, had done nothing
to catch the soldier’s eye.
Had just been going
about their day.