Behind the headlines

 

The phone rings

Ignored on the table

 

The house jumps to the rhythm

Of incoming mortar fire

 

The vacant swings are caught

In the squalling blast wave

 

The volleyball net shimmers

With cushions of concrete and glass

 

The hammock billows

With ghost weight

 

Sirens blare warning

To absent residents

Another unanswered call

To the dead and displaced

 

The door hangs moodily on the frame

Like a mother before morning coffee

Head hungover from incessant shelling

 

The child who

drank milk

ate breakfast

and blew out birthday candles

At this table, in this chair, behind that door

Now sits with a blanket, wearing donated clothes

Surrounded by unfamiliar walls and floors

Safe but uncertain their luck will last

I wrote the beginning of this poem at a Writers Room evening hosted by the Mulgrave Road Theatre with guest author Andre Fenton. Revised this morning during LWS Writers' Hour. Grateful for the time and space to get back on track.