“The Western Front” by Gary Beck

Explosions rend the night.
People fall, bleed, scream,
sirens shriek,
piercing the smoke,
echo in debris-filled air,
responders arrive,
treat the injured,
carry out the dead.

Neighbors yanked from sleep
line dangerous streets,
trembling in apprehension
expecting attacks,
yet this is not Baghdad,
Bombay, Beirut,
foreign and disorderly,
but civilized New York City
entertaining terrorists
instead of tourists.

For more poems by Gary, buy FIVE Vol. 1 No. 8.