The New York Times

I cut a picture out of the new york times
five days ago.
I don't know why I can't stop
looking at it.
I haven't cried about it.
which is a surprise.

I can't forget it it.
I can't crumple the fibers
in my dry hand.
Instead, I find myself
giving this photograph
an important place by my bed.

A boy is looking into a white car
with red blood splattered on the door.
He is so young, maybe six.
The look in his eyes,
angel innocent.

He knows this is the end
of his primary colored world.
He sees his imaginings
draining out to feed the desperation
found in the dying cells
spread accross the car door.

How many people cut this picture out?
How many people said the little boy was cute?
Mocking his escaped reality.
He lives in a world
that births little adults,
and the fully grown species
feeds on hatred for each other,
and yells for bloody peace.