To my left, old women huddle
by the roadside, thinning lives.
They're upholding one another,
so all will check with lightsome spines

at the cemetery's receiving desk,
then melt away in turquoise bliss.
I wish to think what waits is rest,
not stewing in beetroot abyss.

To my right, kids comet by,
and through them—life's current raw.
I wish to think the Tree of Life
will graft each in its midmost core.

How I wish
the innocent
were never wronged...