Refugee Camp
Mama held my hand
As we walked on small hills
Toward a border town.
Papa wore a frown.
The baby had the chills,
And this was a foreign land.
Racket of hammers and drills
From shelters built on sand,
Tents of muddy brown.
Families stuck like stills
In a scrapbook. A crown
Of sun, a cold command.
So tired he couldn’t stand,
Pa laid the baby down
To rest. He’d brought no pills
And couldn’t speak a noun
To a nurse in a Red Cross band
Who tried to judge our ills.
He whispered, “Understand:
It’s not this war that kills,
But begging in a border town.”
© 2015 Steven Withrow, all rights reserved
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