The deserted

Weep for the legless peddler on the curb
               or for youth on the drip of a phone,
For the woman through a slit
               or her angry aged child,
For stray dogs hungering on the edges of broken playgrounds.
               
Weep for poppies and presidents and policy 
              or the face behind the bitter mask of desertion,
For the chasm between home and the airport
              or the rifles borne like handbags,
Or the bodies twisting like airborne foliage.

Weep for the murdered guardians of light
                    or the golden millions melting across the border,
For fibers of trust spat out on strategies
                    or the dust settled on reports,
Or the satisfaction of a vacuum-packed manual.

Weep, weep, weep
             a flood on the plain of parched hope.

On the desertion of the people of Afghanistan in August 2021.