Colleen Harris
Photo: Eddie 07
They are so poor, he says, they sit
on rough patches of dirt
stacking rocks to pass the time
while goats scavenge the garbage.
He says he watched a boy shoot
a man for taking a rock
from the boy’s side of the mountain.
It was just a rock, he says, looking
at his hands. Not a gem, or
shiny, or something you could
trade for food. A rock.
He places a smooth gray stone
at the base of our bonsai tree.
We watch the sun set over
it together from the porch,
holding hands, feeling rich.
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