I’m just doing my rounds in my taxi
To support my dear wife and four kids,
When rockets crash and a Renault is hit,
The occupants trapped and left to burn.
I ask myself, “Is this really happening?”
As dirt and debris start pouring down.
Am I next?
At the crossroads, we check papers,
A unit of nine, three rifles and a grenade.
Rumors fly of the enemy encroaching,
We ditch our arms and hide nearby.
If found, we need some sort of story;
We’re just day workers homeward bound.
Am I next?
Shortly we are surrounded, unable to flee.
Fearing to speak, we text our loved ones;
An hour later the enemy breaks in.
Fierce beatings and shouted questions,
Mobile phones and shoes all taken away,
Captured, down the street we are paraded.
Am I next?
Each has one hand on the belt of next;
Sweating, we’re lined up against a wall.
The guards pause, grin, and play,
Taunting and stoking our dismay.
Soon they grow bored and cranky,
Yelling, “What’ll we do with them now?”
Am I next?
I bid final goodbyes to my neighbors,
The last to my daughter’s godfather.
He runs for it but stumbles and falls,
Inciting the enemy to spray out their fire.
A sharp, sudden sensation bursts through
That I feel pierce and sear my insides.
Am I next?
They check the bodies to make sure
And shoot once more if any sign of life.
One exclaims, “That one’s still alive!”
Bleeding from the gash on my right,
I think they are talking about me;
I brace myself for the final blow.
Am I next?
My wound is agonizingly painful,
But crying out would mean my end.
For now, I must lie among the fallen.
And be as still as a stiff block of ice.
“Oh, he’ll die by himself!” He utters
As his shot strikes somebody else.
Am I next?
Silence, I sense they have departed;
The alleyway is now empty of life.
I risk a glance from under my jacket;
Then though with flash and thundering noise,
Shells explode and tremble the ground,
Cold, drained I barely can keep aware.
Am I next?
My wound has healed; summer arrived.
I have found refuge for my family,
Begun a new job; and we now live secure.
But especially at night, when a door slams,
It rouses memories of lost comrades,
The remorse of the one who survived.
How was I not next?
© 2022, Kenneth Koziol. All rights reserved.
