“For the parents in Naariya [of Baghdad], the clocks
are frozen at a quarter after ten.” —The New York Times
For a chance to move on, for a shot at the win,
the answer is usually C.
Which household item will stop in its tracks
the moment the bomb detonates?
The answer, they think, is C.
The teammates huddle and nod.
The moment the bomb detonates
all the clocks on the walls cease to tick.
The teammates huddle and nod.
Now, what did a victim lose?
All the clocks on the walls cease to tick.
A father thought, only feet, almost nothing.
But what did the victim lose?
A life and thirty-three friends.
At first I thought, only his feet—almost nothing.
And what did the father quit?
A life, thirty-three friends,
or a clerkship at the hardware store?
Just what did the father quit?
They rule out almost everything.
A clerk at the hardware store
might have trouble counting costs.
But he ruled out almost everything.
The players frown, change turns.
He had trouble counting the cost
of war: his first son, his second, his third.
The players frown, change turns
and he collects the scattered toys
of his first son, his second, his third.
For a chance to move on, for a shot at the win,
he collects the scattered toys
and the one item that stops in its tracks.
