Gaza

Thin children, brown eyes

having lost their shine,

hopscotch stumbling 

In dust across concrete shards

On what was once

An avenue that thrived.

Watered-down soup and stale bread

Their only meal

If not shot

At the feeding station. 

What’s that constant buzzing

Overhead?  Where is

The elusive deluded world? 

That “Good trouble”

They talk so much about?