by Kathy Rogers
Yesterday they were playing on the beach
Scratching pictures in the sand
And eating mangos in the shade.
They were laughing and singing
In a language I don't know. Their eyes
And teeth were bright and shiny. Someone
Smiled at them and gave them lunch.
They still had on their school clothes.
Today they are inside the pages
Of the L.A. Times. They are motionless
And their wrists are tagged. Their eyes
And mouthes are closed. There is no warmth,
No color. They don't belong here.
They still have on their school clothes.
Details are recorded only in black and white.
Something about a bus, a bomb,
And innocent children.
Above them a man wails silently.
I stop reading.
Kathy Rogers first found her voice in a poetry workshop she attended by mistake. Years later, she still enjoys these poetry classes wtih Donna Hilbert. When not teaching reading to adults in a community college, she travels with her husband Jack.
