Day 947

He wanders through the rubble
as though he’s looking
for something he lost.  Turns over
a rock, a fragment of a wall.  He’s
nine or ten, skinny; his clothes
barely fit.  His fingers
are raw from digging
through all this debris.  
There’s no one with him:
no father, no mother, no
brother, no friend.  He
does not seem to be walking
in any particular direction;
it’s possible he keeps turning over
the same gray things, finding nothing
but worms or mold or fungus,
turning them over again
as he retraces his steps.
No one to pull him away
from his senseless task.
No one to help him let go
of whatever it was
he set out to redeem.