Car Bomb

There’s a lock down in the middle of the day,

out by the arches at the eastern entrance to the city.

Afghan police receive word

that a suicide bomber is on his way.

Now every car left sitting by the side of the road,

every fruit cart and taxi cab is cause for alarm.

Backed off a bit in our row of trucks we have a good view.

There’s not much else we can do.

The traffic piles up in the heat. Trunks get searched

and police in bad suits start waving them through.

We roll in slow, like a bead of sweat. Past the bleating of goats,

children in the back of a van, their hands

pressed up against the glass,

heat smouldering off every hood, cars hemming us in.

Beneath that hard blue sky – a sweltering

mile line of taxis that makes us know

we’ll never know

which one’s about to go up,

the one far enough away that we live

or the one close enough that we don’t feel a thing.