Rainy nights thinking about Rwanda,
fog seeps out of the woods.
Like smoke, it crawls across the fields.
My head lights attempt to cut through it,
as it intensifies, inhibiting my drive,
but it’s nothing compared to Rwanda.

I arrive at the Mobil,
wait five minutes for the cashier to notice I’m here.
When she does, she hobbles over.
I attempt to buy a pack of backwoods,
my card gets declined,
but it’s nothing compared to Rwanda.

I get in my car,
and have a fit when I can’t find my keys,
but it’s nothing compared to Rwanda.

I begin to drive,
get cut off and curse fellow man,
but it’s nothing compared to Rwanda.

I ***** and I moan,
an entitled little ****,
but I’m alive,


which many can’t say after Rwanda.