They Have a Music

Christmas, 2011 / No. 27

Ever since my sons moved out and foreigns moved in

I can’t sleep a night to save the last of my life.

I’m not sure how many are here; always children,

and always night crying and forever foreign.

They have a music, they play it from radios

after hours, at all hours, listing slow.

They stay outside each chance they get. They hang unders

outdoors! They leave the baby with the old man,

as if a man our age could care for a kid. As if

men like us have extra essence. The two of them,

reliant and alone. I hear him yell in his

language for help. He’s over his head, I know,

I see. This is how they conduct themselves in broad

daylight, youth indifferent to the ones left behind.