the bomb pop

Children were injured,
the nations were gathered
in Boston...

We were America and Africa

running in solidarity

and we still are

and we yet have

half a mile to go

with the finish line in sight

like a promise always made

but never kept

yet never violated

thus was our race

thus was our friendship

You can call it fatalism

but we called it hope,

the voice of grace

calling us to stretch forward

one more turning

In our cocksure youth

we discussed politics

and politics

of religion

until we saw

these would always be

identical paradigms

packaged in changing words

We agreed

uncertain faith

was a better path

in accepting each imperfect other

in believing in

the pollen of goodness

and the bees of beauty

whose sting is as fierce

as flowers are fragrant

We came to see peace

as a river

of blood

sacrificed

for others

Truthfully, he more than I

for his was ever

the greater sacrifice:

he spoke my language

but I did not reciprocate

yet our kinship

became more innocent

like his grandchild

standing by the sidelines

yesterday.

We ran slowly

so we came late

to the scene.

When we arrived

the granddaughter was not there

nor her parents,

his children.

So we ran to the hospital

faster than the marathon’s pace

and found them all there

alive

thank God

I learned as he translated:

while one generation

endured the race of hard-fought friendship

the next class bought a bomb pop

for the young one.

She could not finish her treat

so we promised her another one—

to which she replied,

“No, thank you. I can live without it.”

She is wise beyond her years,

Lord have mercy.

the bomb pop

a poem by troy cady