August 7, 2002

By George Lucy

I sit on a slick man-made rock,
covered in malodourous sweat,
hoping for rain, to clean the layer of filth covering me.

Able to hear waves near in the distance,
the roars of thunder close enough to touch,
offering the smell of hot tires, not the promise of relief.

Staged on the tarmac suffering,
“Dear Leader” Jong-il issues a threat,
a death sentence rendered only by US, upon the Land of the Rising Sun.

I gather up the bearing to not vomit,
but on the surface poise is all that shows,
my mind races, attempting to fathom the events that are unfolding.

As the wind picks up,
it carries a song of cheers,
dismissed from 48 hours of fear, I find myself wanting…

a shower.

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Categories: Issue 5, Poetry | Leave a comment

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