He showers excessively
While the bombs drop,
Silently repeating his mantra:
Wash away the war. Wash away
The war. Now, as he shampoos
For the fifth time, he sings the
Words aloud. Wash away the war.
Wash away the war. His uncle
Is missing, and his father
Shouts through the bathroom door.
Come out, Achmed, come out. You
Are using too much hot water.
And soap doesn’t grow on trees.
Olive oil soap does, sort of,
Achmed thinks, as he contorts
Himself to clean the farthest reaches
Of his back.
http://thepoetryinstitute.com/2009-features/2009-feature-poets/
