A Boy, a Dog and a Mortar

This is not the end of the earth
for war refugees, the end lies a few
miles down the mined highway
or in a ditch nearby, an overturned
vehicle or in a sudden cross fire
between dissidents and government
troops or in a strafing run, carpet
bombing exercise co-ordinates called in
by in-advance-of-a-mission scouts
or by non-existent spook soldiers
on a run through the jungle to nowhere
using non-existent frequencies, dead air,
to broadcast positions of another life;
this is not the end for a young boy
holding a malnourished dog to his chest,
the animal’s discontent, resignation, no use
in struggling look, mirrored in the boy’s
thousand yard, staring into an endless
jungle, look, the boy’s down turned lips
signifying that another move means more
of the same, more loading onto troop
carrier trucks, just another illusion of
mobility and escape, the mortar propped
on the family’s meager luggage the essential
component, to taking the next giant step
toward what lies just beyond the end.