I nursed my father in my arms as he died
spewing black blood.
Do you think any residue between me and you
I do a lot of death.
The ones who grow old
The people who don’t
Those who barely made it past the cradle.
I wait in the market in Damascus and
no one is unexpected.
I stand on a bridge and
sooner or later they all pass by.
I extend my hand and
Hello, I say.
I have a room prepared.