Homs, Syria by J.D. Ferguson

ABU WALKED to the wooden box lying on its side.

 was painted on the top in red. He kicked it and looked up.

“Ahmad, there's something over here,” Abu said.

Ahmad walked slowly to the box and kicked it.
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“Dr. Livingstone, I presume?”

“Oh, dear…”

“Well, you are the doctor, right?”

“Look, old chap… Can we just keep quiet about this?”

“Keep quiet?”

“Yes, old chap. I just feel silly about all this and want to keep my name out of the papers.”

Here is your daughter. Her khaki satchel has been dumped next to her, its contents scattered onto the linoleum, and you wonder if she has even noticed. Her hair is pulled back and you know that it's morning still for her. She presses her lips together in a hard line while she reads Dilbert in the Sunday paper, and her fingers idly fiddle with the fabric of her t-shirt; one that you specifically told her was not for sleeping in.

I heard the disease last afternoon
echoing bass and tremolo
from the woods
of origin from outer space
of origin, not of no thing
the disease told me to close my eyes and walk through the four lanes of route seventythree
to have faith in something from some thing
so I smoked two cigarettes at once for some reason
and went for it
on my first asphaltian step I heard swerving and beeping so I opened my eyes
there was the cure
driving a black escalade
calling me an asshole.