In the waiting room, I squeeze <br />this old rosary a nun gave me <br />the day I got back from Iraq. <br /> <br />I was still in a daze on a gurney <br />and I still had sand in my hair. <br />Some of it remains, no matter <br /> <br />how many showers I take. <br />Sand from Iraq lingers, I'm told, <br />until you go bald, and then <br /> <br />you are able to concentrate <br />on other things. <br />What might they be, I wonder. <br /> <br />But today, in this waiting room, <br />I squeeze the rosary tighter <br />when I hear, louder than <br /> <br />the gunshots crackling in my dreams, <br />the real screams of that little boy <br />right over there, the one who's <br /> <br />rapped his elbow off the radiator. <br />Lord, listen to him scream! <br />Each week he comes with his mother <br /> <br />for her follow-up appointment. <br />He sounds like the jet <br />that takes me back at night <br /> <br />to that little village in Iraq <br />where the sand puffs up <br />in mushroom clouds <br /> <br />above the bullets <br />as the children scream <br />in their hovels louder <br /> <br />than that little boy <br />screaming over there. <br />Maybe everyone <br /> <br />in this waiting room <br />listening to him scream <br />can come with me now <br /> <br />to that village in Iraq. <br />Sitting here, I know <br />that boy's pain so well <br /> <br />that in my fist <br />this rosary no longer <br />knows my prayers.<br /><br />Donal Mahoney<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/ptsd-4/
