An estuary of decomposing
    virtues, bloated references
weave on the silence of a stream
                             of hidden dread.  

Trying to hide the crimes of yesterday,
                flowing beyond their view.
But everything will eventually
                                caress the shores
of what was washed beyond their guilt.


Nothing that is washed away
         will ever be kept secret.
For everything will find a river
                                             of truth.
To be seen and deemed in dismay.
            Life isn't a river to be washed away.

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.